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ew-selfish-art · 1 year ago

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Dpx Dc AU: Ectoplasm is required for Ghosts to be visible to the human eye- And Danny creates his own ectoplasm.

Danny is visiting Jazz in Gotham and its weird how friendly everyone is. Like, the city gets a really bad rapport, everywhere he goes there is someone trying to strike up a conversation or answer his questions about getting around to the tourist spots. A few people even pointed out restaurants and ways to find off the beaten path gems! Jazz seems to role her eyes at him, but when he brings up her 'roommate' being kind of cute she flat out laughs.

Danny then comes to understand the Jazz doesn't have a roommate and that Ghosts in Gotham don't move far from their haunts- He's just been inadvertently turning these undead folks visible by accident of generating abnormal amounts of ectoplasm.

Which, is comforting in a way, he's never walking this dangerous city alone and really, most of the ghosts have been really friendly! They disappear once he's a few blocks away from them anyway.

---

Tim Drake is having a horrible day.

He'd been given intel that one of Black Mask's guys was going to snitch but that he'd died before given the opportunity to reach out to the GCPD. He tracks down the guy's last know whereabouts and yikes. Its next to the Theater. Tim was often grateful for his childhood obsessions, this time it backfired.

Tim and Bruce get into an argument about trust and respect and, worst of all, mental health. And even though Tim was vehemently against Batman accompanying Red Robin to the alleyway - that's exactly what happens.

They arrive and Bruce is closing up faster than a clam in the contaminated Gotham Bay- Clearly being in the Alley bothers him. No fucking shit. RR gets started on collecting evidence, there are a few extra blood splatters and a single left shoe... When a kid walks into the Alley.

"Uh, sorry to intrude-" The kid looks scared shitless, and runs away. And then, all of a sudden, Batman and Robin aren't alone in the Alley.

Tim can hardly believe his eyes as the dead man appears and quickly blabs Black Mask's bank passwords and what the plan had been- and While he's over joyed to have that closure, he turns around to Batman weeping in the arms of his parents.

The ghosts fade, and the emotions are certainly charged as this was never something Bruce or Tim would have ever dreamed of happening. Ghosts in Gotham. Talking, floating, granting closure.

"RR, Bats, come in." Oracle calls into their ears.

"Reporting in, but, uh, we need a minute."

"A minute? We have a case on 4th and-"

"O, we just saw the ghosts of the Waynes. It's going to be a minute."

"...Lots of Ghost reports lately then. Any chance you saw a kid looking like he could be adopted?"

"Yeah, actually, black hair and blue eyes. He was super polite before he ran away."

"We have work to do. Oracle, lets prioritize finding our person of interest and divert Nightwing and Robin to the case on 4th." Batman cut between them on the comms and he sounded... calmer than either of them anticipated.

---

Jazz is no longer laughing when Batman appears at her door explaining that he's looking for Danny (Who already flew away from town to get a good night's sleep before class on Monday). Turns out Danny reunited the man with his dead parents just briefly- and then the second guy appears and mentions how Danny had also given a guy who'd been murdered by a Mob enough time to explain the ongoing threats the city faced.

Jazz just rolls her eyes and says that it's not like the ghosts are going anywhere anytime soon and Danny will visit in another month. When pressed, she just explains that her brother is a weirdo. No of course he doesn't have powers. Gaslight and Girlbosses her way out.

And Jazz thinks that the game is up for at least another month, obviously when Danny visits more shit will stir up, but then this new guy appears.

Unlike the other Bats who are keen on watching her from a distance, the Red Hood knocks on her door. Are her eyebrows all the way into her hairline when Red Hood asks her to send his thanks along to Danny because somehow this whole situation led to his Dad expressing remorse for his actions and apologizing? Yes, yes they are.

But Jazz can smell Dissertation Data off of these vigilantes- Who is she to send them away? Jazz welcomes Red Hood into her place for a cup of tea and a small chat.

The story then devolves into Jazz getting shit done, Danny being cute by proximity and also bringing ghosts to the party, and the Bats having trauma resolve between them.

#dcxdp #dpxdc #dc x dp #dp x dc #danny phantom #dc crossover #dp crossover #long post #danny can make ghosts appear like they do in amity but only for a short while and when in proximity to him #its not apparent in amity because the ghosts are just like that there #Danny just having a good time #Danny having zero brain cells about this whole thing and neither he nor jazz will offer explanations #they're just like 'gotham has ghosts. its not like he put them there'#Bruce getting into therapy because his dead parents said they were proud of him and he didnt know how to handle that #bruce having to turn this energy around somehow and seeing jason - my boy i love you so much and im so sorry and im so proud of you #heres the thing i dont know how i made it anger management ship at the end but i sure as fuck did.#jason is at a lack of words at bruce's confessions of pride and love but is also about to be a BAT about this and track down info #info in the form of a cute girl #oh yeah she has a brother #uh well #he has brothers too- this is fine #someone write this fic pls n thx u

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trippinsorrows · 6 months ago

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with me + part one

authors note: well, i got some type of writers block working on two other RR wip's so opened a new google doc and ended up with this. prob gonna be 3 parts, maybe 4. there's an almost five year time jump after this one, can you guess why? also, joe's wife is an oc, not galina.

first time posting my roman writings on here and trying not to freak out tbh

warnings: angst, infidelity, language, suggestive content

song inspo: with me by destiny's child

word count: 4,000

You know that assignment everyone at some point in their education where they research what they want to be when they grow up and share it with the whole class for a grade? Yeah, that big mammoth of a question that somehow you’re supposed to have confidently answered before even reaching double digits.

That was always super easy for you.

From as far back as you can remember, you wanted to be a teacher. It took until you were in middle school, almost high school for you to settle on an elementary school teacher, college for a specific grade. But, the teaching profession always called to you.

You chalk it up to your grandmother, undoubtedly one of your favorite people in this entire world. She was also an elementary school teacher who taught until she was expectedly called home when you were 14. Some part of you wonders if you’ve never even allowed yourself to entertain any other professions because of her loss. She was your best friend, and following in her footsteps was wanted but also felt somewhat necessary. Like you had to in order to honor her and her legacy.

A couple years into your career, you still think about that, how you’ve known from such a young age what you wanted to do with your life. Well, one part.

In other areas, maybe the most important areas, you were lost as all of the outdoors. Mostly in one area, if you’re being honest, and truthfully, it’s not even what you want in as much as it is how you get there. The path is relatively simple: find a man, fall in love, get married, have babies, live happily ever after.

It’s such a stereotypical trajectory, but one you’ve also envisioned for yourself since your late teens. You’d gotten partying all out of your system during the early college years, somewhat in high school as well. Now in your mid 20s, soon to be late 20s, all you want to do is prepare to eventually settle down. Sooner rather than later.

And the issue isn’t even having no prospects. You have a prospect, he’s just unavailable.

Because he’s already fucking married.

But can you even call him a prospect when that implies there’s some chance? Because there’s zero chance. You know this. You know this very well, too well. So why you still allow him into your bed and inside of you is beyond you. Yes, the sex is out of this world, but you desire more than that. Maybe not at first, but almost three years deep into this arrangement, most definitely.

You still think back to your first meeting.

Your best friend won a contest that not only granted her two front row tickets to a Smackdown show but backstage passes as well. You met so many wrestlers that night, some you grew up watching on TV as the little tomboy that you were as a kid. But, it was one wrestler in particular: tall, muscular, hair more beautiful and silky than any silk press your beautician mother could ever style, that changed your life. Whether for better or worse remains to be seen.

He was attractive, extremely, possibly one of the most beautiful men you’d ever met. But, the attraction was short-lived when you spotted the wedding band on his left hand. You’d be lying if you tried to say that was when the attraction sizzled out. It diminished, but it was still there. Still, you didn’t think much of it, that was until you received a call from a number on your phone that you didn't recognize.

Why you even accepted the call is still a mystery. You never answered random calls, yet that one was an exception, an exception that resulted in you having an unexpected phone conversation with Roman fucking Reigns. He explained that he got your number from your friend who’d exchanged contact information with a wrestler she met that night as well. They were messing around too, that much you knew. And good for her. He, unlike Roman, was not married and therefore free to fuck around.

The conversation lasted much longer than it needed to, especially given the flirtatious nature it quickly took on. It was wrong, you knew this well, very well. He took vows, but you were also aware of those vows. And heat no point pressured you into anything, you could have cut it off. Flirtatious he was, but forceful he was not.

The conversations increased in frequency and length over a matter of weeks that turned into months, and before you knew it, your day started and ended with either a text or phone call from the wrestler.

A small part of you knew that it would eventually escalate into more, a man like him seemed like he needed more. But, you stupidly tried to tell yourself that when that time came, you would remain strong and draw the line in the sand with just communication. Even if it was just as wrong as anything else.

It was a silly thought.

Your resolve was weak.

You absolutely did not need to accept his invitation to fly you out to one of his shows, and you damn sure didn’t need to allow him to take you back to his hotel where your legs ended up wrapped around his waist as he pounded into you—among other things—until the early hours of the morning.

The days after that were rough. You felt absolutely disgusted with yourself. It was one thing to flirt with a married man, but it was an entirely different thing to fuck a married man. He wasn’t yours. He belonged to someone else. He had a life with some other woman. You had no right to insert yourself into that union, so you decided to sever contact with him, deleting his number from your phone and shoving the experience in the ‘biggest regret of your life’ box with no intention of reopening it.

Unfortunately for you, Roman, Joe, as he asked you to call him, was a persistent bastard.

You ignored his texts, so he called. You ignored his calls, so he texted. You ignored both, and this motherfucker showed up at your goddamn door. There were multiple times you could have and should have ended things, that being another perfect opportunity. If you told him to leave that night, not allowed him into your apartment, he would have listened. He was stubborn and resolute but also respectful. If you told him to leave, really told him, he would have done so.

But, you didn’t. You allowed him into your place and similar to the last time you were in his presence, ended up spread out on your bed with him balls deep inside you until you couldn’t feel your lower half.

Now, fast forward three years later, not much has changed. You two don’t communicate quite as much in the day, and his visits are more spread out given the company’s current efforts at pushing him as the new face of the company. But, that doesn’t stop his visits to come see you and flights he puts you on to come see him, both of which always end with him leaving your legs jelly and throat raw.

All the while his wife sits at home unaware of her husband’s consistent residence between your legs.

The thought alone makes you sick, revolted at yourself, at how you’ve allowed yourself to reach this point in life. Closer to 30 than 20 and going on 3 years of being a mistress to a married man, a man who can never give you the future you want yet refuse to let go.

Not that you’d ever allow yourself to really acknowledge why.

That’s….that’s just too much.

________

Pillow talk was just something that naturally happened between the two of you. It made sense given that your relationship started out with just talking. He seemed interested in knowing more about you, about your likes and dislikes. He shared his as well. You weren’t beyond admitting that Joe was insanely easy to talk to, the flow of conversation always natural, never forced. There never seemed to be a dry spot between you two.

And whether it was an innate ability to pick up on the emotions of others or just his, you could always tell when something was bothering him, could see when he came to you with a burden he didn’t want to discuss.

Not that that stopped you from asking. If he declined to talk about it, you respected it, didn’t push. But, more often than not, he would end up sharing things with you, mostly concerns regarding his career.

It seemed he visioned one thing for himself, while Vince McMahon saw another. He felt frustrated at times, especially when the fanbase started pushing back more. He never admitted as such, but you could see it hurt his feelings. How could it not? Kayfabe or not, Joe was still a real person with real feelings, regardless of the role he played.

And at some point, his visits to see you stopped always involving sex. That happened majority of the time, but there were occasions when he just seemed like he needed someone to be around, a distraction, someone to talk to.

Someone like you.

“Come on.” You jumped up off the couch and offered your hand that he looked at with disinterest. “Don’t make me drag your big ass. It’ll probably break my back.” He lifts his brow, and you roll your eyes. “Joe, come onnnn.”

“Where are we going?” He finally asks, all the while sighing heavily and standing up. Though unnecessary at this point, he still takes your hand. You try not to think too much of the gentle squeeze he gives.

“To my kitchen.”

Glancing over, he gestures with his thumb. “The place that’s like 3 feet away.”

You suck your teeth and shove against him. “Don’t be an ass. We’re gonna bake cookies.”

“Bake?”

“That’s what I said.” Though clearly skeptical, he follows you into the kitchen and watches as you start gathering supplies. “I spent a lot of summers with my grandma, and whenever either of us were having a bad day, she’d take us into the kitchen and we’d bake chocolate chip cookies. She’d always say there’s nothing a good chocolate morsel can’t cure.”

Reflecting on those memories, so fond and cherished, brings a despondent smile to your face.

His eyes fall on you, sensing the sudden sadness. “You miss her.”

“Every day….” Shaking your head, you make a conscious effort to not make this about you and your grief. “Now, we need music.” You settle on some random “cookout” playlist that aids in setting the playful mood. To your surprise, yet not surprise, Joe keeps up without struggle. He's a fast learner, easily following along to your detailed instructions and explanations. Things get messy at times, as one does when baking, but it only causes the two of you to share laughter. Especially when you ‘accidentally’ get flour on each other. For you, it was an accident. His was definitely intentional.

Still, between the laughter, light conversation, and New Edition serving as backdrop, it’s a sweet moment.

“And now we wait,” you announce, plopping down on the sofa. “Wrestler by day, baker by night. Who’d a thunk it?”

He chuckles. “I never knew you could cook.”

At that, you nearly choke on the water bottle you’d grabbed off the coffee table. “Me? Cook? No. Not at all. There’s a reason every thanksgiving, my family only asks me to bring the drinks. My mom is the cook. Grandma was the baker. I can make cookies and a few select items. That’s it.”

You can still hear your grandma’s voice in the back of your head, chiding you for never allowing your mom to teach you how to cook. It just never garnered your interest, even when they swore up and down you’d never find a husband without knowing how.

Maybe they were right.

He joins you in the living room, settling on the other end of the sofa. “Maybe I could teach you then.”

His words—and offer—suprise you. “You can cook?”

“Don’t look so surprised.” He rolls his blue eyes. Some days you love the contacts, others you hate them. Today is a love day. They make his beauty even more exquisite. “Because of the big age difference between me and my siblings, it was just me and my mom a lot of times. They were either out and about or had either moved out. She’d ask me to help her out in the kitchen, and I picked up on a couple things.”

“You’re a fast learner.” That much is very obvious, in several areas of his life. “Was it ever hard? Like, not really having them around?”

He seems to think about her question before answering. “Yes and no. The twins moved to Florida when I was like three, and we became close instantly. It was like suddenly having two new brothers. Obviously, they didn’t live with us, so they weren’t always around, and those times were hard, I guess. But the older we got, the more we did together.”

The Usos. Also wrestlers trying to make names for themselves. He really does hail from a legendary dynasty. “I get that. It was just me and my mom, and she worked a lot to support us, so that’s why I spent so much time with my grandma. And I loved it, but sometimes it got lonely not really having siblings.” You look over at him, studying this massive specimen of a man who seems so unsure of himself right now, unsure of his future. He’d hinted at such during their prep, but you bookmarked the comment to revisit. “It’s all gonna work out, you know.”

His gaze is on you, partially disinterested, mostly in disagreement. Joe knows what you're referring to. He chuckles, darkly, “you sound sure.”

“I am,” you counter calmly. Moving to sit on your knees, you continue, “no matter what it takes, you make them respect you. You can do it, and when you finally find your footing, you’ll be one of the best to ever do it. Mark my words.”

You’ve never been one to build up false hopes in anyone, far too familiar with the sting of disappointment. So every word leaving your mouth drips with sincerity. Joe is so much more than a “pretty face” or someone who got lucky by being born into a wrestling dynasty with a golden spoon in his mouth. He’s worked his ass off, you see how he works his ass off, so the last thing you’d want to witness is him become his own worst enemy by getting too into his head.

“You’ll see. They boo now, but pretty soon they’ll be cheering.” Moving to your knees, you lift your arms in a theatrical display. “Roman, Roman, Roman.” You yelp when his strong arms pull you into his lap, legs spread on either side of his thick thighs. “Would you let me hype you up? Like, damn.”

His smile, so beautiful and genuine, warms your soul. His spirits are lifted, and that’s all that matters. Joe’s hands are on your hips, palms massaging you through your shorts. You move your arms around his neck, resting on his strong shoulders “Thank you.”

It’s at this moment, you foolishly allow yourself to wonder. Wonder what it would be like for this to be the norm, for him to always return to your place when he has time off or in between shows. Wonder what it would be like to consistently be this safe space for him, to be in his corner and not just in the shadows, but in the light. To be supporting him ringside. To be his.

And for a second, you pretend. You pretend that you are his, and he’s yours. That this is your man, and you’re his girl. Just the two of you. Nobody else.

But the comedown from that is devastating, like a boulder sitting on your chest, a butcher knife to your heart. Because he isn’t yours. He never was, and he never will be.

Mood sullen, you lower your arms to separate yourself. “I should…” You clear your throat, climbing off of him. The air is suddenly too stuffy, the room too small. You need space. “I should go check on the cookies.”

Joe’s not stupid, far from it. You know that he has to pick up on your 180 in mood, yet he doesn’t pursue you, doesn’t ask questions, and you’re thankful for that. You need to not be around him right now, not so close, not so connected, not so in love.

You need to let him go. ________

“I can’t do this anymore.”

Joe’s in the midst of sliding his shirt over his head, sitting on the edge of the bed when your voice, low and quiet, stops him mid movement. “What?”

“I said.” You blow out a big breath, unsure why your chest suddenly feels so heavy. “I can’t do this anymore.”

At that, he angles his body so that he can look at you, assess your face. He’s a big eye contact person. “What are you talking about?”

Irritation piques. “You know exactly what I’m talking about, Joe.” Gesturing between the two of you, you kick the blankets off and quickly reach for your t-shirt that got discarded last night. Being naked in front of him suddenly feels uncomfortable. “This. It’s done.”

He pauses for a second and then shakes his head, resuming his dressing. “Okay.”

His tone is dismissive, like he doesn’t believe you. Like he thinks you’re playing around. Of course he would be in one of those moods, where he’s more irritable, less receptive and fucking stubborn. “I’m serious.”

“I’m not doing this shit with you right now.” Joe gets up and continues dressing himself, prompting you to climb out of bed and move in front of him.

He can’t avoid his way out of this. You won’t allow it. It’s time to finally rip the bandaid off.

You’ve sat on this for the last two weeks, since he last left your apartment and you realized you’d stupidly allowed yourself to fall for this man. Fall for a man who walks around with a wedding ring on his left hand, who’s always had that wedding ring from the moment you met him. You’re not upset with him, not as much as you’re upset with yourself.

You grew up the product of an affair, felt the stinging pain of being rejected by a parent whose selfishness resulted in the creation of life, a life he wanted no part of. Seen how your mom literally begged your piece of shit father to be in your life, to play some role. Heard how he cruelly rejected her, rejected you, calling you your mother’s bastard. A mistake.

It devastated you so deeply that you still can’t really talk about it without getting emotional.

And yet, you idiotically found yourself playing the same role you used to judge your mother for: the other woman.

It’s a role you stepped in, and one you must now step out of.

“There’s nothing to do.” You run your hands over your face and shake your head. Choosing to have this conversation at almost 4 o’clock in the morning probably wasn’t the best move, but you also know that if you give yourself more time, you’ll find a reason not to do it. And you need to do this. “You have a wife, Joe. A whole ass woman who loves you and would probably let you fuck her just as much as you like to fuck me. Go be with her, and if not her, find someone else, cause I won’t be that for you. Not anymore.”

You’re not exactly sure what part of what you just said registered with him, but it’s obvious something did by the change of tone he takes. “Where is this coming from?”

“It’s coming from where it should have come a long time ago,” you answer, crossing your arms over your body. “This was never right, and I refuse to partake in it anymore. I won’t be your whore anymore.”

You didn’t expect hurt to flash in his beautiful eyes nor for him to move closer to you, that hurt intensifying when you back away. He can’t touch you. You can’t allow that, because all it takes is only touch, one longing gaze, and you’ll be putty in his hands. This has to end. “Is that really what you think you are to me?”

“I don’t know what I am to you, Joe,” you answer, honestly. It’s something you’ve battled back and forth with for nearly three years. Just what is it about you that keeps him coming back, keeps him in your bedroom, inside of you. At face value, it’s the sexual compatibility between you. Below the surface level though, there’s maybe more. You’ve never allowed yourself to venture there, and you’re certainly not about to right now. You know how you feel about him, but you refuse to really ask yourself how he feels about you. “And truthfully, it doesn’t matter, cause it doesn’t change anything.”

“So, that’s just it?” His voice is wounded, handsome face painted into a mixture of scowl and a frown. “Almost three years, and you want to throw it all away, for what?”

“For what…..Joe, you are married. You have a whole wife at home. Whatever issues you have that cause you to step out, work that shit out. Learn how to be with her. Cause I’m not doing it any more. I—I can’t.” Emotion imbues your voice toward the end, and you hate that shit. You don’t want him to see, to know, how much this has been eating you up as of lately. “I’m gonna be 30 in a few years. I want to be married. I want to have a family. I deserve that, and I’ll never have it as long as I’m messing with you, so I’ve gotta let you go.” You swallow the deep lump in the back of your throat. “And you’ve gotta let me go.”

This time, this time you can see the part that wounds him, that digs into his chest. You’ve gotta let me go.

Joe is fast, fast enough to move directly in front of you, large hands holding your face. He says your name, desperate almost. “Tell me what to do, tell me what you want, and I’ll do it. Just….” He stops, and you close your eyes, refusing to see if it’s his own emotions coming up. You can barely handle your own cascade of feelings right now and refuse to take on his. “I can’t lose you.”

What you want…..

What you want is for him to never leave. What you want is for him to stay with you, to be with you. What you want is for him to have never met Jadah, never married her, never committed his life to her.

What you want is for him to be yours and only yours, but what you want….is also what you can never have.

“I—I want you to leave, Joe.” The words burn your lips, scorch your throat, ache your soul. “And this time….don’t come back.”

You can’t bring yourself to open your eyes, to see the result of your heartbreaking, even if honest request. It’s because you know seeing him hurt will only cause your resolve to crumble, and you can’t have that. You have to be strong, have to be the woman your mother couldn't.

So, you remain there, remain silent as he steps away from you, his touch vanishing. There’s such an emptiness in his wake.

It’s only when you hear the front door of your apartment shut that you finally feel it, the caving of your stomach, the heavy lump move from the back of your throat, the release of the loud sob you didn’t realize you’d been keeping at bay.

It’s when you finally allow yourself to feel all of the emotions of a woman who just told the only man she’s ever loved to leave.

If only you knew his departure was just the beginning of the rest of your life.

#roman reigns x black!oc #roman reigns x black!reader #black writers #wwe #roman reigns x reader #roman reigns fic #arisnotebook

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sallage · 4 months ago

Text

Apologize

One Shots

Warning: This is an (intense?) tickle fic!

Summary: Kidnapped for ransom, Bakugo's captor desired a peaceful coexistence, but his own temper led to a loss of leniency, making his captivity… less tolerable.

Pairing: Lee Bakugo, Ler ? (OC)

Words: 2,989

Reading Time: 12 Minutes

A/N: I wrote this yesterday at 1 am so it might be whack but I was totally inspired by @wreckingtickles most recent fic, Say The Line, Bakugo! Hehehe Enjoy!

Read more ∘₊✧ Here ✧₊∘

“Fuck you, FUCK you, FUHUCK YOUUUU!”

Spittle sprang from Bakugo’s mouth as one set of hands dug into the bottom of his stomach, right above the waistline of his shorts while a pair of writhing tendrils squirmed over the upper part, occasionally dipping teasingly over his quivering flanks.

The tendrils seemed to have been shape-shifted hands, as they were connected to a pair of normal looking wrists, but he currently didn’t have the ability to make sense of it.

He glowered down at his powerful body with spiteful eyes as hands and tendrils pulled undignified sounds from his throat.

His body was pulled taught in an X position on an oversized metal table with holes spaced a few inches apart, dotting either side of his limbs and outlining the length of his body.

His hands were forced open, fingers trapped under custom made pieces of metal that curved around them like rings, preventing him from closing them into fists.

A straight and horizontal pole jutted outwards from the holes placed along the edges of the table, parallel to his knees. It had the appearance of a slender clothing rack or rod, featuring a long indent running across the bottom and stretching over the entire length of the table. The pole stood a few feet above the flat surface, its purpose stumping the hysterical blonde.

His feet were bare with long soft strings woven around each of his toes which were attached to a strange, cog like machine that rested on a custom made shelf welded onto the table. Two machines were placed a few inches above both of his ankles.

He pushed his head back, and attempted to shift his body from side to side, despite how useless it was with how tightly he was restrained.

A voice echoed throughout the large, presumably empty room.

“Are you gonna be nice to me now?”

Bakugo writhed and growled, the pair of hands steadily squeezed and fluttered their nails all along his lower stomach, scratching at the sensitive spots above his hips and using all four nails to hold, scratch, and undulate across his sides.

“Count your fffffucking days, you dumbass! You’re gonna rr-regret this!”

Bakugo had woken up in the dark, unable to move and quizzically, unable to use his quirk. Before he could muster enough cognitive function to form a coherent thought, light dimly brightened his form, leaving the rest of the room shroud in darkness.

A voice informed him that he’d been kidnapped but no harm was to be inflicted. They both would wait patiently for the ransom money to arrive, then Bakugo would be released shortly after the person behind the voice was granted a generous head start.

Bakugo, of course, couldn’t just lay there without initiating some sort of provocation.

As a result, he’d bite his bottom lip so hard it could split when random hands and tendrils shot out of holes on either side of his torso, automatically working his sides and belly.

He shifted a few centimeters to the right when the hand on his left used their nails make infuriatingly ticklish grabbing motions at his flank, then shifted back to the left when nails on his right lazily did the same, trapping him in a weird interpretation of horizontal salsa.

Tendrils writhed along the upper part of his stomach, each individual one spreading out to tease, pinch or wriggle against the heated skin, his black tee stripped before he’d woken up.

Bakugo exhaled loudly through his teeth, spit flying from his mouth.

“An answer would be great!”

“Shut UPP!” He demanded, yelping not even a second later as both hands pinched the skin above his hips.

“Yeeeesh, I’ll take that as a no.”

Bakugo sucked in a large breath when hands poked out of every other hole, staggering themselves along either side of his arms.

A pair of hands were stationed at his hands, another by his forearms, another at his elbows, and another at his biceps. Each hand was holding a stiff feather, hovering threateningly.

Bakugo chuckled, more out of arrogance than from the ministrations of his tormentors.

“You think fucking feathers are going to do shit to me, motherfucker?”

There was no response except for the hands, who used their fingers to maneuver the feathers, brandishing the quill instead.

Before Bakugo could release another string of obscenities, all of them started lightly scribbling, dragging, and swirling the quills all along the length of his arms.

Bakugo spluttered, a strangled noise forced out of his throat.

The points at his hands traced across the stretch of his fingers, taking turns scraping at each individual one while the other traced the creased lines of his palms.

He tried desperately to use his quirk, but he couldn’t ignite a single spark.

Quills squiggled down the hardness of his forearms, drawing light cursive shapes up to his wrists, then softly and maddeningly drag them back down in tight zig zag motions.

The ones at his elbows attacked the sensitive inner part, while also branching out and swirling around to outline the skin above and below.

And finally, quills traced and outlined the contours of the twitching muscles that made up his biceps. They teased all over the flexing muscles, lingering over the sensitive skin just above his armpits and using repetitive motions to outline the top rim.

Bakugo’s struggling increased, as did the volume of his instigations. He hatefully glared at the hands as they found sensitive spots all along his arms.

“How about neeeoooooww?” A pause. “You gonna be nice to me now?”

Bakugo shook his head. “You- y- Geh!” He flinched and jolted, grinding his teeth in frustration, unable to even curl his hands into fists to expel some of the ticklish energy.

“Geh- get these damned things- aH-ooffah me!”

The quills posted at his biceps and hands were causing unexpected problems. They lightly teased at the skin above his pits, only occasionally lifting away to prevent desensitization. Every time they came back, he jumped and bit the inside of his cheek.

The ones at his palms weren't any better. He couldn’t believe how the sharp scrapes and flicks made him writhe in mirthful frustration as they followed the creases that fanned out across the top, center and bottom of his palms.

His scrunched face bore the resemblance of someone who’d stepped on a Lego after they’ve already stubbed their toe.

“What’s the magic wooooord?”

“J-jump ahahaff a fuckin’ bridge!” Bakugo spat, angry and strained veins visible and pulsing along his neck.

“That was definitely more than one word. And none of them were magic.”

Startlingly, two grey medium sized balls resting on a short and skinny flexible rod popped out of the holes on either side of his neck, the hole being perfectly fitted by their circular base.

Bakugo jolted and pushed his face to the side, watching as the ball slowly spun around, revealing only one thing on its glossy surface.

A realistic looking mouth with a tongue lolling out of it like a dog.

“W-Whuh-”

He was cut off when, like a bendable lamp, they craned down on either side and began kissing, licking, and nibbling along the sensitive skin.

One nibbled a ticklish path up from the base of his neck, under his jaw, and just below his ear, while the other nipped and licked up and down his collar bones and the base of his neck.

They each attacked their respective spots, punching an embarrassing high pitched squeak out of Bakugo. He writhed and tried to shrink and scrunch his neck, but only managed to push the side of his face to his shoulder, which consequently left the other side open to a more precise attack.

“NeeyaHAHAhaha WHAhahat theha- NahaAHAHahah! f-fucking grohohoss! STAHahahahap!”

Bakugo was caught in ticklish limbo. He jerked his head from side to side, the action yielding not one second of relief.

“Well, you told me to jump off a bridge! What else was I supposed to do?”

“Juhuhump AHAhahaff it!” Bakugo spasmed and pushed his hips the few centimeters that were allotted off the table, trying to get away from the prodding hands that tore his attention away when they veered off course and pinched his hips. He jolted with yell when tendrils squirmed and drew small, probing circles over the bottom of his ribs.

“That’s pretty bad advice. If I jumped off a bridge, then who would press this button?”

Two claws erupted from the holes at the edges of the table, smoothly gliding up the metal pole. The indent allowed them to move effortlessly along the length, mimicking the motion of a makeshift claw machine.

As they reached the position above his legs, the claws wavered momentarily before awkwardly attempting to pivot their five, hand-like pincers over his knees.

Bakugo's curses echoed loudly throughout the room as the claws painstakingly adjusted themselves, each movement slow and methodical, akin to an arcader angling a claw machine over a coveted prize, before slowly descending.

Despite Bakugo's efforts to avoid the inevitable, his squirms and wiggles proved futile. With a final touch, they gently landed on his bare knees, their up and down jellyfish-like movements sending a wave of ticklish spasms through his legs.

Bakugo would have done a spit take if he was drinking… Well, anything.

“PPFFFTNhahahHAHA! oOOooh fahahk! AGHH Waah- NOHOHOHO!” That last "no" was punctuated with a guttural growl as the assault to his knees worsened, the claws now spinning and scratching over his convulsing skin.

He was having so much trouble keeping it together, and none of these spots were overly ticklish in the first place.

Individually, at least.

“Y’know, I was okay with enjoying a quiet night while we waited for the pros to wire the money, Maybe share a laugh or two, but you couldn't go a single dang minute without insulting me.”

The voice paused. The only sounds echoing in the room were of Bakugo’s struggles, restrained giggles, grunts, and huffs.

“Okay, I’ll make you a deal. If you apologize, I’ll pull everything. sound good?”

Bakugo shook his head, mostly out of mirth and perseverance as the mouths relentlessly attacked any open spot they could find.

“Ihihih- AGHH! Ihihihm not ApohohoHAHAhlogizing to you, fuhcker! Eat shihihit!”

A sigh of faux disappointment.

“Alrighty then.”

Two hands shot out of the holes on either side of Bakugo’s hips. His eyes widened.

“No! dohohnt you fuckin’- NOHOHOH, YOU FREHEHEAK!”

Two hands, armed with massager guns, ran the vibrating, punching tips all over Bakugo’s pelvis.

They pressed the tools onto his hip bones and rounded to the sensitive spaces on top and underneath, even expanding to the quaking skin below his belly button and back again.

“OHO FUCK! SHIHIHIT! SHIT! STAHAHAP! HAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHA!”

“Apoooologize.”

“NOHOHOHOHO!”

"Okie."

Hands shot out of every hole along his thighs.

They bent and and squeezed along the pressure points above his knees, scribbled over the lower inner muscles, scritched all along the middle, moved up to tease the skin along the legs of his shorts, and pressed their fingers and thumbs into the tendons of his upper inner thighs.

Despite the threat to his neck, Bakugo threw his head back, guffaws pumping out of him like an out of control fire hose.

“FFFFFAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAK! WHAHAHA! OH SHIHIHIHIT! STAHAHAHAP! AAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHA! HAHAHA!”

“A! - P O L O! - G I! - Z E!”

The voice spelled out the word in a cheerleader chant, sounding like they were busting a move with each letter.

“FAHAHAHAK YOU!” Bakugo screamed, face cracked in half with ticklish glee.

“Woooooooooow, you’re a glutton for punishment, arent you? Dont worry, buddy, I got you.”

Two hands shot up from the holes, one over each of his armpits.

Bakugo blanched.

“NUH- NOHOHO! FUCK NO! DOHOHONT YOU FUCKIN’ DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! NOHOHOHOHO NONONONO!AHAHAHAHAHAH! WAAHAHAHAHA! STAHAHAHP! STOP STAHAP STAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAP!”

Bakugo absolutely lost it when the hands descended, pressing portable electric back massagers with rotating bristled feet against the center of his armpits, furthering the overwhelming sensations by rotating them slowly over the expanse of his slick, sweating hollows.

“GAHAHAHAHAHAD! AHAHAH! STOOOOOOP! STAHAHAHAHAP, YOU FUCKING BAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!”

Bakugo thrashed against the restraints. His knees twitched, his hips bounced and his head whipped from side to side, up and down, spraying small droplets of useless sweat.

“STAHAHAHHAP! GEHEHET THEM OFF! GEHEHET THEM- AHH! WHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHA! HAHAHOW MANY OF YOU FUHUHHUKERS ARE DOWN THEHEHEHERE?!”

“You’re truly doing this to yourself, man.”

Bakugo was too hysterical to pay attention to whatever nonsense they were spewing, his mind hell bent on getting the tickling to stop.

“YOU MOHTHERFUHCKER! STAHAHAHAHAHAP! ILLKILLYOU! ILL FAHAHAHAKING DRAG YOU OUT OF- AAAAH! NOOOOHOHOHOHOHO!”

“Now you’re just being impossible.”

“WHAHAHAHAHA WHAHA- WHOA WAIT! WAHAHAIT WAITWAITNOWAIT!”

Bakugo helplessly thrashed as hands shot out of the holes on either sides of his ribs.

A wide array of probes varying in length and size stuck out from a mechanical saucer like disc, attached on a rotatable silver ball on a short metal handle. The hands positioned the disk so the probes hovered menacingly over his ribs.

To his absolute horror, the hands pressed a button on the side of the handle, and the probes whirled to life. Circling, jabbing, and wiggling in all different directions. The whole thing looking like some whack, tortuous hair diffuser.

“Aaaaaand~”

“NOHOHOHOHO! FUCK YOU! DONT! DOHONT YOU FAHAHAHKIN- WAIT! WAITWAITWAIT-"

The hands pressed the evil diffusers onto Bakugo’s ribs, the mechanical terrors covering most of the tortured blonde’s ribcage.

“Touchdoooooown!”

Bakugo threw his head back and arched his spine, a high pitched scream ripping out of his throat before the intensity turned it silent.

“WHOAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHA————————————-————————————————!”

His voice gave way to raspy desperation as he ran low on air, but had more than enough laughter to give.

With a resentful scowl, Bakugo watched as chaos gripped his body, tormenting him with unforgivable precision.

He let out a frustrated, gravely scream and tossed his head back once more when the hands started moving the mechanical diffuser over the entirety of his reddening ribcage.

He felt the little probes dig, wiggle, rotate and goose his skin, the sensation like a million marching ants frantically scattering all over him.

They moved again, settling at the top of his ribs. They pressed the saucer down so the protruding rim was flush against him. The moving probes sunk into his skin, torturing the nerves from top to bottom and between the bones.

“NAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHHAHA! OKAYSTOP! OKAYOKAYOKAYOKAYYYYHAYHAYHAAAYYYSTOOP! STOPSTOPSTAAAAAAAAHAAAAHHAP! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH! I'M SHAHAHHARY! I'MFUCKINGSORRY! JUHUHUST- PFFFTTT! STAHAHAHAP! GEHEHAHAHAHA AHAHAHFF HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA GEHEHEHEHEHEH IHIHIT- AAHH————————————————————————————————-“

“Hmmm, I dunno. You’ve been really mean to me since you woke up. For like, no reason.”

“WAHAHAHHAHAHAHAT?! FAHAHAH- I FAHAHAHHAAKIN SAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH———————- I SAIHIHIHAHAHAHAHHAH—————ISAIDIWASSAHHRY!”

“Yeah sure, but you really hurt my feelings. I might need some time to really think about it.”

“OHOHOH MAAHAHAGAHAHAHD!! SHIT SHIT SHHIHIHIT! AAAAHHHH! NAAAHH FAHAHAHK YOU! YOUFUCKINGPIECEOFSHIT! ILLFUCKINGMURDER- NOOOHOHOHOOOOOO! FUCKYOUFUCKYOUFUCKYOUUHUHUHU! STAHAHAHAP THIHIHIS! GAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA————HAAAAAHHHHHAHAHAHAHAHA!”

“See, why would you say all that when I’m trying to forgive you?” A loud sigh. “I guess you’ll just have to lay there and think about why that wasn't a good idea.”

Two pairs of hands shot out from the holes on either side of his feet.

Through his uncontrollable tears, he saw his life flash before his eyes.

“NO! NOHOHOHOHO WAAHAHAHIT! I'MSORRY! IM FUCKING SAHAHAHAHRY! PLEHEHEHESE! PLEASE DOHOHOHONT! DOHOHOOOOOOOONT!”

Two hands on either side held oval shaped wet-hair detangling bushes while the others were adorned with grooming gloves.

He expected them to attack, but was caught off guard when the mechanical cog devices over his ankles whirled to life. He could only shake his head as the string looped around his toes went minimally slack, only for all of them to start threading through his toes.

“WAHAHAHAHAHA! OOOOOHOHOHOH FFFFFUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!! HOLYSHIT! FAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHA————-HAHAK! PLEASE! PLEHHEEEE———"

“Don’t worry, I’ll try you again in an hour or so. Then we can revisit your attitude problem. Ciao!”

“WHAHIT! WHAITWAITPLEASEDONT-”

The hands struck.

The grooming glove scrubbed and waved vigorously at the top of his foot, scrubbing and scratching at the sensitive balls and undersides of his toes. The wet hair brush took care of the rest, brushing wildly against the arches, heals and the sides of his feet. The other foot wasnt better off, dealing with the same ministrations but in opposite positions.

At some point, a hand popped up behind his head, equipped with a flexible metal pronged head massager that to the blonde’s utter bewilderment, tickled like hell and sent goosebumps roaring all along his skin.

Pushing his head up only maneuvered the massager to slink its torturous prongs down the back of his neck, up the back of his head, and behind his ears. Which was arguably, so much worse.

So he forced his head down, in control of it for about two seconds before he lifted it up again in mirth, the sloppy kisses, licks and nibbles from the mouths never ceasing their unrelenting attack.

Amongst all the calamity, he jumped out of his skin when he felt hands tracing and scratching up and down his spine and along the outer edges of his lower back. His eyes widened in painful disbelief as he realized there were holes underneath the ungodly table.

His back, sides, and hamstrings were targeted from below, successfully clouding his comprehension of reality.

All he could do was take it,

“WHOOAAAHOHOHOHOMYFUCKING GAHAHAHAHAHAHAHD! PLEASE! PLEASEPLEASEPLEASEMAHAHAHAHAKE IT STAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAP! MAKETHEM STAHAHAHAHAHAHP IMFUCKING SAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHARRY! IMSOFAHAHAKINGSORRY!"

And laugh,

“PPFFFTTNAAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA—————————-ICANTFUCKINGDOTHIS! OHMYGAD I CHAHAHAHNT! ICANT! OHOHOHOHOOO, I CAHAAAAAAHAHAHAHHAHAHA--------!"

And laugh,

“HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHA! WHOOAAAHAHAHAHAHA! KAHAHAHAH! WAAAHAHAHAH! PLEEEHEHE—————HEHEHEHEHEHE———————HEHHESE! AHAHAHA——————! FAAAAAA———————HAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAAAAHH!”

And laugh.

"H-----------HAH---------------! AAHHH-------------------HAHAHAHAHHAA! FAHA---------------------! PLE--- PLEHE------------------!"

Bakugo’s mind rolled. His red, raw, and sweaty body buzzed with electricity as the tools glided across his abused skin with ease.

He wailed and apologized, cursed and thrashed, but none of it was enough.

More often than not, his laughter turned silent, reminding him that he would continue to lie there, forced to take it for the next hour, completely at the mercy of his own damn sensitivity.

#tickle blog #tickle community #bnha tickle #mha tickle #t word community #tickle fic #lee!bakugou #ticklish!bakugou #sallage mha #intense tickling

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witchhazelevesque · 2 months ago

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I often see Calypso’s curse described as ‘she’s forced to love anyone that comes to her island’ but that’s not exactly what happens:

“You asked about my curse, Percy. I did not want to tell you. The truth is the gods send me companionship from time to time. Every thousand years or so, they allow a hero to wash up on my shores, someone who needs my help. I tend to him and befriend him, but it is never random. The Fates make sure that the sort of hero they send…” “They send a person who can never stay,” she whispered. “Who can never accept my offer of companionship for more than a little while. They send me a hero I can’t help…just the sort of person I can’t help falling in love with.” … “The Fates are cruel. They sent you to me, my brave one, knowing that you would break my heart.”

Battle of the Labyrinth, 223

The most pertinent bits are in color.

It’s not that she’s magicked into loving someone against her will, it’s that the Fates handpick people she would have loved anyway. As in, they have qualities she admires/values and finds herself able to love (big asterisk here). And the Fates make sure that of those people she could love, they pick ones that can’t stay with her.

This isn’t exactly retconned in House of Hades, but she does shift the blame more to the gods and doesn’t mention the Fates in this exchange:

“They were all the same! The gods send me the greatest heroes, the ones I cannot help but…” “You fall in love with them,” Leo guessed. “And then they leave you.” Her chin trembled. “That is my curse. I had hoped to be free of it by now, but here I am, still stuck on Ogygia after three thousand years.”

House of Hades, 378

But the focus is still on the fact that the people who come to her island can’t stay. The way it’s phrased here, it does makes sense how it could be taken as ‘she’s forced to love anyone’, but that’s not what’s happening.

Her curse is centered around being abandoned while stuck on her island. It’s only a curse because she’s imprisoned. She cites that as the reason she isn’t free from this curse. It’s not a set-and-forget work of magic that controls her emotions. It’s more of an active situation for the gods or Fates, where they orchestrate the delivery of the source of her pain each millennia, and then the rest comes in Calypso dealing with the aftermath of her companions leaving.

That big asterisk: Percy and Leo should not be included in this category. They’re children.

So, why is any of this even happening?

Blame Riordan and his weird, failed attempt to depict Calypso as a teenager; he did a horrible job.

Granted, it wouldn’t have worked no matter what he did, just by the nature of immortality. But he, for some reason, keeps shooting himself in the foot by hammering in her age. I don’t have access to the ToA books but some examples: Apollo saying she was old enough to be his babysitter, the way she got dreamy eyed at remembering things that happened before her imprisonment, the fact that she was there when Zeus was a child (by immortal standards).

Calypso is aware of time passing, and she retains all her memories of the thousands of years she existed, both on and off Ogygia. Time is weird on her island, but it does still move forward. She is literally, emotionally and mentally thousands of years old.

The only leg work RR does to depict Calypso as a teenager is to make her look like a teenager and then try to set up romantic situations with actual teenagers. For comparison, RR has Hestia take the form of a child, but no one acts like she actually is a child.

Later, RR has Calypso do things like want to go to high school and band camp, but that doesn’t make sense. Her wanting to have new experiences does, yes, but not ones that are for teenagers. That’s not indicative of her being a child, it’s more of RR’s lukewarm effort to make her a teenager.

I don’t have some hard hitting point to this distinction, I just think it’s important to know what’s actually being portrayed and how it’s being done. Calypso isn’t forced magically, in universe to fall in love, but she is forced to narratively.

My overall point though is, as usual, be critical of Riordan’s choices. He set up this thing where he wants the audience to believe that Calypso is so compatible with Percy and Leo that even the gods take notice, but it doesn’t work because she isn’t a teenager like they are.

#rr crit #rick riordan critical #calypso pjo #pjo calypso #percy jackson #leo valdez #battle of the labyrinth #house of hades #percy jackson and the olympians #heroes of olympus #pjo #hoo #pjo hoo toa #anti caleo #anti perlypso #is that the tag?#idk how to format the quotes

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mysterycitrus · 1 year ago

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i think what annoys me so much about a lot of fanon batfam content is the obsession with stark moral angst - like, there has to be someone who's been absolutely wronged, and someone who's absolutely done the wronging in every situation

which like... for some things i get it? but also that lack of nuance sacrifices most of the interesting dynamics with the characters. i'd say timmy drake is the most obvious example, cause he isn't an eternal victim who has only ever been hurt, he has in turn done a lot of harm. which is fine! rr is successful storytelling because it's about a grief-striken mental spiral. it makes him interesting

but i do also think there is a particular.... shall we say...... trend wrt which characters are granted clemency and which characters aren't. why are people ready to forgive jtodd (an adult) but are totally unwilling to engage with damian wayne (a ten year old) on any level, even after he's grown and made amends? why whitewash jtodd's (only) interesting character decisions in favour of reinventing him as another dick grayson clone aka a primary reason he was axed in the first place?

i dont really have a concluding statement i just want people to read bruce wayne: murderer and batgirl 2009

#anyway #dc comics #batfam #tbd #spokes

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m0llygunn · 1 year ago

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Rockstar's Daughter (eddie munson x fem!reader one-shot)

Summary: Pulling Eddie into your responsibility-less dreamland, you get upset when he has to leave you to get back to 'reality'. When he comes back with a surprise for you, you grant him a very special reward.

Contents: 18+! smut, mature language, oral (m receiving), p in v sex (unprotected), creampie, dead rockstar father, porn with plot. Takes place in early 2000s, eddie and r in their early 20s. a/n: Yesterday was my birthday so I spent my lazy morning today writing this for you guys! I also hit 200 followers yesterday- which is exceptionally cool and soso crazy because I only started posting less than a month ago. Thank you for all the interactions on my other stories, I would love for feedback so I can write more of what you guys like! Ty again and enjoy!! This is inspired by the movie Uptown Girls, which is my favourite movie ever (thus the username lol). wc: 4.2k+

⊹₊⋆☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆☁︎⋆₊ ⊹

“What? You wanted to fuck the rockstars daughter so you could go home and tell all your little friends? Is that it?” You spit, crossing your arms over your chest.

“No! That’s not— that’s not what I was trying to do.” He says, pulling the hem of his shirt down before untucking his hair from the neckline.

“So what were you trying to do?” You ask, watching as he pulls his shoes on. He finishes putting them on, omitting from tying them before standing up straighter, placing both of his hands on your shoulders. He looks into your eyes deeply and you can tell he’s trying to choose his words wisely.

“I like you. I just— I can’t live in your dreamland. I have 4 gigs this week and I already missed practice. Plus, I have a meeting tomorrow and I haven’t prepared for it at all, and I haven't even had a chance to call my band mates back.” He says, growing more uptight as he continues in his long list of abandoned responsibilities.

“Leave.” You say, shrugging his grip off. His eyes flash hurt before his mouth presses shut firmly, clenching his jaw. He brings a hand to his face, rubbing at his chin before opening his mouth again.

“I just need to go back to the real world for a few days, sorry I can’t stay here and live in your fairytale forever.” He says, adding too much attitude and contest for your liking.

You cross the apartment, opening the front door, motioning with your arm for him to leave.

Closing the distance between the two of you, he stops in front of you, eyes meeting yours once again.

“I’ll call you.” He says, features turning soft.

“Don’t bother, I would hate to taint your sense of reality.” You retort.

“I’ll call you.” He says firmer. He steps forward, pressing a kiss to your cheek before looking at you. You don’t say anything in response.

With a soft nod, Eddie leaves and you shut the door behind him with a long sigh.

You met Eddie at a party. Running in the music crowd because of who your father was, your friend is a music producer and manager. He had found Eddie at some dingy dive bar performing and swore up and down that his band was gonna be the next best thing in music and because of that, he brought Eddie along to the party to introduce him to Reggie Records, owner of big time music label, RR Music.

As soon as you saw Eddie, you knew you had to have him. There was just something about him that demanded your attention and once he had it, there was no losing it.

Then before you knew it, he was over at your apartment.

It was 4 days of uninterrupted time with Eddie. He calls it a ‘dreamland’ or a ‘fairytale’, you call it life. Life is precious and gone in a blink of an eye, you’re gonna live your life how you want to.

Your father was a rockstar. After a fatal accident, he became nothing more than a memory. A memory that left you, young and broken hearted, stranded amongst a crowd of grownups, forcing you to grow up.

Growing up was too scary though, so you never did. Through your childhood and into your teen years, you daydreamed about running away, living amongst other dreamers with no responsibilities where nothing could hurt you. When you were off on your own, you got your apartment and turned it into your sanctuary. A place where you could live happily ever after.

You get where Eddie’s coming from. Your friends never fail to tell you how disconnected you are, but it’s easier this way. It’s easier to live in a world where all you have to do is hang out with friends, shop, order in, and call maid services. But all that aside, the easiest thing was the last 4 days you spent with Eddie. With your intuition never faltering, he’s everything you’ve ever wanted and more. And that’s why the fight transpired when he finally had to face reality and leave you behind.

He left you in your dreamland. Left you to return to your responsibility-less life, fantasizing through your days and partying through your nights. A rockstar's daughter through and through, just without the rockstar father.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

You’ve spent the last week and a half groveling in your own pity. Your friend had come over to cheer you up but she ended up mostly just nagging you about cleaning up and doing something else besides wasting your time away, hung up on a boy.

You had given yourself a pep talk that morning, vowing to drop him from your mind. You took a shower, got ready and were about to leave your apartment for the first time in a week when your phone ringing interrupted you.

“Hey, it’s Eddie.” His low voice vibrating on the other end of the line.

“Eddie who?” You say, remembering how he said he’d call, yet it took him 11 days to do so.

“Don’t be like that.”

“Eddie who?” You say harshly.

“Munson.” He says with a deep sigh.

“Oh, the Eddie who lives in ‘the real world’?” You retort.

“Sure.” He says, sighing again. “Listen, I was wondering if you wanted to get dinner?”

“Why?”

“I told you, I like you.” He says and your heart patters in your chest. You pause, gathering your thoughts. Sure, you spend the last almost 2 weeks of your life wallowing in your own self-pity over him, but you’re not about to let him off the hook like that just because he says he likes you.

“You got a funny way of showing it.” You say, lamely.

“So dinner? Tonight? How’s 7 sound?” He proceeds, ignoring your comment entirely.

“Eddie—.” You start but he interrupts you.

“I’ll pick you up. We can go to that place near you that we ordered from, the one you said you like.”

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

A knock at the door pulls you away from your vanity. You’re infamously running late as usual, which normally you’d feel no particular way about, but since Eddie already thinks you’re living in some made up fantasy world, you're struck with a sense of embarrassment.

“Hey, beautiful.” Eddie greets as you open the door.

“Eddie.” You say indifferently.

“I would ask if you’re ready but…” he laughs, motioning up to the roller in the front of your hair and down to the dressing robe you’re wearing.

“Eddie, I’m running a little late, please hold off on the hurtful jokes.” You say, widening the door for him to come in.

“No jokes, got it.” He says, pulling you into him with a hand around your waist, pressing a kiss to your cheek.

With your belly dipping in nerves, when he lets you go you turn around, walking back to your room. Silently, he trails along after you, taking a seat on your bed.

“We got an ETA?” He asks.

“No jokes I said.”

“S’not a joke, pretty girl, it’s a question.” He says, smiling at you through your vanity mirror. His smile spreads from ear to ear, his eyes twinkling in the lowlights of your room.

“You’re in a good mood.” You say, pulling the rollers out of your hair.

“We’re celebrating tonight.” He says, sitting up straighter, eyes still glued to your reflection.

“Celebrating?” You question, turning in your seat to look at him directly rather than just through the mirror.”

“We got signed.” He says, dimples setting deep on his cheeks.

“Seriously?” You exclaim, feeling your heart skip a beat. Eddie smiles bigger and you can’t help your own smile spreading on your face.

“Seriously. We had the meeting yesterday, and it went fan-fucking-tastic.” He smiles, eyes beaming with excitement. “Then they called this morning and sent over the paperwork. We’re signed.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” You shriek, standing up and bounding for him. Wrapping your arms around his neck, you hug him with all your force, pressing your chest to his.

“Between ��Eddie who?’ and ‘Eddie who lives in the real world’, it didn’t exactly fit into the conversation on the phone.” He laughs, buckling under your weight and falling back onto the mattress.

“Are you kidding? You got signed, Eddie, that fits into every conversation.” You say, pulling back to look at him, gleaming with your own excitement. “I’m so happy for you.” You say, pressing a kiss to his lips.

“Thank you.” He mutters shyly. “So that’s why we’re celebrating.” He says excitedly, still smiling when you pull back to look at him again.

“And you wanted to celebrate with me?” You ask, pouting, your lower lip jetting out.

“Absolutely, which reminds me, I have something to show you.” He says, shifting under you, pulling a CD out of his jacket.

“A CD?” You question curiously, still smiling.

“Yeah… the day after I left here, we had a meeting and they wanted something different— you know, to hear some diversity in our sound.” He says, eyes flickering down to the CD in his hands, nervously fumbling with it. “I had already kind of started working on this the night before, and… this is the song that got us signed.” He says, exhaling before redirecting his gaze back to you with a shy smile. You raise your brows.

“New song?” You ask quietly, feeling a buzz of excitement but winding it back due to Eddie’s growing shy nature.

“New song.” He confirms, smile deepening.

You take the CD from him, sitting us quickly and rushing to your CD player on the shelf. He follows after you, leaning against your dresser while you start up the disc.

“Now, before you start it, I think I should tell you the name of the song.” He says playfully, a hint of a sly taunt in his voice, shyness put on the back burner.

“Okay, tell me the name.” You laugh.

“Rockstar’s Daughter.”

Your jaw drops in surprise.

“It’s about me?” You ask, eyes going wide.

“The one and only.” He smiles.

Throwing yourself in Eddie’s arms, squeezing him tightly around his neck, he squeezes you back around your waist.

“Okay, okay. Play it, I want you to hear it.” He laughs. You keep squeezing him so he turns, stepping you both closer so that he can hit play on your CD player.

Still hanging off of Eddie, music trickles from the CD player. It starts off slow, with a gentle acoustic guitar, way different from everything else he’s played you.

When the lyrics come in, you are nearly swept clean off your feet from Eddie’s gentle voice. It’s a ballad, working up as the song builds on.

When the words 'Rockstar's Daughter’ sing out, you point to yourself, cheeks tight with your smile being so big.

“Me?” You whisper to Eddie.

“You.” He whispers back with a nod. You squeeze him tighter in your arms.

The lyrics continue, listening intently, and you laugh when he starts describing your ‘fairytale dreamland’ and how he wants to stay there forever.

The song starts to build up and so does the beating of your heart. Looking at Eddie, his eyes are bubbling with amusement, sparkling as he watches you. Your eyes trailing lower, his lips are plump and inviting.

You squeeze him tighter once again before bringing your lips to his.

You kiss him fervently, all of your happy emotions bubbling up at once. He brings his hand up to your jaw, his mouth working against yours with just as much passion. Opening your mouth, he’s quick to lick into you, tongue gentle at first as it caresses yours.

“I love the song.” You mumble against his mouth. You feel his lips turn up at the corners.

“It’s not even done yet.” He says, laughing softly, returning to the kiss immediately. You continue kissing him until it comes to an end, music fading out.

“Restart it.” You mumble, when the song stops completely.

Still kissing you, Eddie turns your body as he attempts to restart the song. His mouth falters against yours for a moment while he figures out your CD player, but he eventually gets it, the track restarting from the top.

You pull away from him, hitting the little loop button before grabbing his hand and pulling him to the edge of your bed.

You seamlessly untie your dressing robe, letting it fall to the floor, revealing your naked body.

Eddie’s eyes widen, his jaw slacking as his eyes roam over you.

“Thought you didn’t like my ‘fairytale dreamland’?” You tease.

“Never said that.” He replies, swallowing thickly.

You bring your hands to his shoulders, pulling his jacket down from the collar, letting it drop to the floor.

“You kind of did.” You reply.

“I love your little world here in your apartment. I would stay in it forever if I could.” He says, eyes flickering to yours. You grasp onto the hem of his shirt, pulling it up and when he lifts his arms you pull it over his head. His hair cascades down, resting back onto his bare shoulders as you drop the material to the floor.

“You could.” You reply, hands trailing over his chest.

“I wouldn’t have written this song if I stayed.” He replies, bringing a hand to your cheek, holding it tenderly, warm eyes staring into yours.

“The song’s pretty good.” You say, hearing his voice sing in the background of your conversation.

“Pretty good?” He smiles, raising a brow.

“Really good.” You smile back.

“Good. I’m glad you like it.” He says. You let your eyes trail down his face again, traveling further downwards until stopping at his tattoo over his heart.

“I love it.” You whisper, pressing a chaste kiss to the edge of the inked design.

“S’all for you. Every word.” He says, weaving his hand into your hair gently. You press more kisses onto his chest, traveling back up until you're kissing up his neck.

“I love every word of it.” You whisper, punctuating your sentiment with a wet kiss under his ear. You let your hands fall to his belt line, taking the cold metal into your grip, working at getting it open.

“I missed you. It’s hard out there in the real world.” He says teasingly. You smile, pulling away from his neck to look at him.

“Really? You should bring me out there sometime.” You tease back.

“Was trying to, but uh— don’t know if we’ll make it to dinner now.” He says, lowering his eyes to where your hands have paused on his belt.

You pull the buckle loose, undoing his pants before he dips his face to you, pressing kisses along your cheek, down your jaw, craning his neck to press kisses all the way down to your collarbone.

You pull him by the loops of his pants closer to the bed, making him sit on the edge before you pull at his pants. He lifts his hips, allowing for you to tug them down and discard them on the floor, his boxers following suit.

You settle on your knees in front of him and the song restarts from the beginning again.

“You gonna make me listen to my own song?” He laughs.

“Listen to your own song while I suck your dick? Yes.” You say keeping an air of innocence in your voice, all while looking up at him through your lashes.

“Really?” He laughs again, eyes fanning from your face down to where your hands connect with his thighs.

“You wrote it about me, I can do whatever I want with it.” You purr. You take his hardening cock in your hands, running your fist down it before kitten licking the tip.

“Fuck— yeah you can.” He groans, his length kicking up under your grasp. You spit on the head, spreading the wetness downwards.

When he’s wet enough, you bring your fist up and down before bringing your mouth back to his length, pressing a kiss right onto the flushing tip.

“Missed you, Eddie.” You say sweetly, taking the tip into your mouth, hollowing your cheeks as you suck gently as first.

“Shit, missed you too.” He gasps, voice getting strangled in his chest. You swirl your tongue around his tip before flattening it, taking him further into your mouth.

You twist your wrists, running your hands up and down his length, bobbing your head shallowly. He’s quickly a moaning mess in your grasp, and you feel yourself growing hotter, clenching your thighs for relief.

You remove one hand, taking him deeper in your mouth and he brings his hand to the side of your face, pushing your hair out of the way. You lean into his hold and he gets the hint, guiding you up and down.

You pull up, taking a breath, strings of spit still connecting you to him, before diving back down. You remove your second hand from his length, relaxing your throat and letting him glide right in, his hand on your head holding you there, his cock pressed against the back of your throat.

“F-fuck. Feels so good, baby.” He groans, eyes squeezing shut. His hand lets up on the back of your head just as you feel your lungs tightening, and you rise sputtering for air, catching your breath.

“Wanna ride you, Eddie.” You whine, unable to ignore the pulsing of desire between your legs for any longer.

“C’mon baby. Come ride me.” He says breathily, offering you a hand up. As you rise, he pulls you onto the bed before using his arms to scootch himself to the headboard, leaning against it.

He offers you his hand and you take it, stabilizing yourself as you swing your leg over his hips.

Moving your hand to his chest, you use your other hand to guide his length to your entrance.

Sinking down onto him, a harmonized moan leaves both of your lips, the soft strum of the song restarting once again still playing in the background.

“Fuck, baby. Gonna write a song about your pussy next.” He groans lowly, making you laugh softly.

“Yeah? What’re you gonna write about it?” You ask, through a heavy breath.

“How fucking good it is. So tight, hugging my cock so perfectly.”

“Can't wait to hear it.” You moan, as you lift your hips from his, lowering yourself back down slowly.

“Your pussy was made for me. S’fucking perfect.” He says, bringing his hands to your hips, helping you continue to lift yourself off of him.

You start at a slow pace, working yourself up and down, taking his full length right down to his base. You feel your belly grow antsy, needing more, and you start grinding yourself against him after each sink, your clit rubbing perfectly against him.

“Fuck, Eddie. Your cock feels so good, fills me up so good.” You moan out, dropping your head to rest against his chest. With one arm, he pulls you closer to him. He lifts you enough for his hips to shift under you, helping you by meeting you halfway with each of your movements as your legs start to grow tired.

You keep going, thighs pushing you up and down on his cock until they burn, aching for relief. His hips make up for your tiredness, still continuing to buck up into you.

“Want me to take over, baby? Fuck you just how you like it?” He rasps, hand rubbing up and down your back as his hips start to slow.

“Please, Eddie. Need you to.” You whimper.

He helps you lift up off of him. Taking your hips in his hands, he starts moving you to shift onto your hands and knees but you place a hand over his chest, motioning for him to pause. Over the four days at your apartment, he discovered that he could pull the best orgasms from you like that, but you stop him, wanting to be on your back this time.

“Want to see you, Eddie.” You say, voice coming out in a whine.

“Whatever you want, pretty girl.” He says, pressing a kiss to your lips. His mouth works against yours as he helps you lower to the bed, head hitting the pillow softly as he hovers over you.

When he pulls away from the kiss, he maneuvers your legs, taking them in his hands by your knees, hiking them up as you spread them out for him.

“Look at your pretty pussy. You look so beautiful laid out like this for me.” He whispers huskily.

“Better write that down for your new song.” You whisper back, making his lips quirk up into a smile, huffing softly.

He brings his hand down to your core, letting his thumb stroke the expanse of your slit, stopping at your clit.

“So fucking wet too.” He says under his breath.

“All for you, Eddie.” You whisper, canting your hips for more friction.

He starts rubbing his thumb in little circles on your clit making you gasp.

“Please, Eddie. Need you inside.” You whine, hips bucking as he presses harshly on your clit just to watch you squirm.

“Perfect pussy.” He groans under his breath, taking his glistening cock in his hand, lining up with your sopping hole.

When he pushes in, you hum happily feeling him stretch you open.

He presses into you deeply, knowing exactly how you like it already. The head of his cock drags against your sweet spot as he pulls out and it has you chorusing moans, accompanying the build up of his song still playing in the background.

“Sound so pretty, baby.” He rasps, breath catching in his throat as he pushes back into you quicker, balls slapping against your ass.

“You sound so pretty.” You breathe, starting to get lost in the pleasure but trying to hold onto the faint singing of his voice coming from across the room.

You feel your belly start to tense, and when he returns his thumb to your clit your breathing turns into harsh little pants.

“Just like that, Eddie. Feels so good.” You whimper.

His thrusting continues, getting faster and harder, building up with the volume of your moans. Your belly grows impossibly tight, euphoria threatening to spill.

The sounds of his skin slapping against yours binds perfectly with the gentle instruments in the song, perfectly complimenting the moans and whimpers coming from Eddie as he pounds into you.

You feel yourself getting close and rapture quickly boils over, not even giving you a chance to tell Eddie.

Every beautiful cascading symphony slowly fades in your ears as your pleasure bursts, tightened belly exploding with ecstasy, all thoughts leaving your head as Eddie carries you through your orgasm.

“Fuck— fuck. Just squeezing my cock, baby.” He groans, thrusts starting to go sloppy. “Gonna cum, g-gonna—” He grunts, cock pressing deeply into you as his cum shoots inside, painting your walls pearly white. His hips jerk and stutter as he works himself through his own orgasm, and you slowly recover from your own.

When his hips come to a halt, you reach out your arms, beckoning for him to come to you, to press his chest to your own and feel his body on top of yours. He complies, arms caging around you, lowering himself as gently as he can.

As soon as he settles against you, the crescendo of the song in the background comes to an end, fading to silence, like a perfectly timed soundtrack.

When it restarts again, you can’t help but laugh.

“I love my song.” You say, exhaling with a happy sigh.

“Fuck— can’t wait for you to hear the next one I’m gonna write.” He laughs softly.

You hum quietly to yourself feeling beyond content. If this is some fairytale dreamland, so be it. You have a beautiful man here with you, writing you lovey ballads.

“You doing anything the next couple of days?” He asks, popping his head up from your chest.

“Why?” You ask, a smile already rising on your lips.

“Gotta a few days off until we start recording more stuff.”

“Yeah?” You question, willing him to continue. He uses his arms to push himself up enough to see you better.

“I was thinking…” He starts, brows rising to hide under his messy bangs. “If you’ll have me, I’d love to spend them with you? Maybe we can go out and do stuff too? Like the date I wanted to take you on?” He says, voice going timid and smile turning sheepish as he progresses in his proposal.

You purse your lips, letting your eyes wander the room as you pretend to think it over. When you focus back on Eddie, his eyes bleed a faint nervousness.

“I’m going to keep that song on repeat, just so you know.” You say, grinning as you look up at him. He smiles back, pressing a kiss to the tip of your nose.

“Does fairytale dreamland have a new soundtrack?” He teases.

“Yes.” You reply firmly, before pulling him to your lips, kissing him.

Not only does fairytale dreamland have a new soundtrack, it seems to have a new willing resident too.

⊹₊⋆☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆☁︎⋆₊ ⊹

ty!

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie x fem!reader #eddie x you #eddie munson x you #eddie munson smut #eddie munson oneshot #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson fanfic

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its-isover · 1 year ago

Text

Li Zhao Yu had zero doubt in his mind that he was, indeed, one of the best. After all, not just anybody could hit radiant in Valorant. He leaned back in his chair lazily, stretching with a yawn. His gaze flickered to his webcam and then back to his screen. His career was a crisp green carpet, with him fragging well enough to be the top or at least second highest fragger each match.

“I think that’s about enough for today, chat,” he muttered into his mic as he rubbed his eyes. It had been…five hours? He swore it did not feel like he had been playing for that long. Unfortunately, right as he was about to log off, he heard a little ping from his phone. Picking it up, his expression turned to one of mild annoyance. With a little “tsk”, he put his headphones back on.

“Change of plans, chat, seems like a few friends want to grind comp for a bit. We’re in for some…five-stack shenanigans.”

With a few final stretches for his shoulders and neck, he joined his friend’s party, the four already present members waiting for him. His eyes narrowed at their lack of rank.

“Weh, what gives?”

“I needed help carrying some new friends,” his friend responded dryly. Li only sighed, “Whatever, man, just don’t make me derank.”

As it would turn out, lower elo was absolutely god awful atrocious to him. Li had half a mind to cut the stream, almost certain he would get into trouble of some kind for the level of toxicity he was displaying. Granted, he only said about a third of what he really thought in team chat, but given the words circulating through his head, he had little doubt what he was saying was awful enough.

“Bai chi ya…zhen me wu yong…” Frankly, he was way too tilted to be playing. Did that stop him though? Of course not. Because Li Zhao Yu was not a quitter. The night was off to a horrible end, and three matches in, Li was throwing in the towel. “I’m done with this,” he had declared, leaving the party and slumping back in his chair. He ran his hand through his hair, eyes shut and brows furrowed, pulling his hair back and ruffling it, leaning forward, sighing, and ruffling his hair again. “I’m done,” he repeated. Done with what, exactly, he did not bother to elaborate. He got up to stretch a bit, finally feeling the dull ache in his neck. The pain absolutely was not worth it. Playing with those idiots? Deranking this much? Disgusting. He had never seen this much red in his career since he…he couldn’t even remember the last time he’d done this badly. Except it wasn’t even his fault. How could it be, when he was the match MVP in almost all of them? He should stop. He should get some rest, some time away from the blasted game. But no.

Against his better judgement, he hopped back into solo queue. There were various reactions to his decision in chat, ranging from “You sure about this?” to “I really think you ought to rest” to “Hell yeah! We don’t end on a loss!” Not that any of that mattered to him. Li felt like shit, and since it was caused by numerous losses, his only logical solution was to garner just as many, if not more, victories to compensate himself emotionally.

What a stupid decision. These random guys he ended up with on his teams weren’t much better. Left to his own devices, he very well might have played through the night to recover all his lost rr. It took his roommate, Ryo, pulling the plug on his PC for him to go to bed. With that abrupt end to his stream, Li hauled himself under the covers, passing out as his frustrations turned to exhaustion and overcame him.

Maybe Ryo was right, all he needed was a little rest. Li thought, until he had breakfast and Ryo said he was going out with Kirra. “You’re not gonna duo with me?” had been Li’s first reaction, breadcrumbs dropping as he dropped his bao onto the table. Ryo only shook his head. “Maybe tonight,” Ryo offered. “Maybe you should come along, the fresh air might make you less insufferable.”

His suggestion was met with a sharp glare, lavender eyes piercing through dark onyx ones. Li looked nothing short of scandalised at the notion of his grind being interrupted. Was he expected to agree? Hell no. There was nothing Ryo could say to convince him to go out just to be a third wheel on his roommate’s date. Li was sure Ryo knew him well enough to know that, so he wasn’t really sure why he had bothered asking. However, that clarified itself when Kirra showed up, an unfamiliar face in tow as she declared they would all be going on a double date.

It was awkward, to say the least. Ryo and Kirra walked on ahead, hand in hand, leaving you behind with Li. Perhaps it wouldn’t have been so bad if Li wasn’t already bothered, but there was no way of knowing that as you walked beside him, trying to gauge what would be an appropriate distance to put between the two of you. It didn’t help that Ryo and Kirra took the dog, which left you and Li with even less of a buffer.

How does one start a conversation with a stranger your friend set you up with when they look completely disinterested? One option is always to just…not. For better or worse, you weren’t a quitter (though not to Li’s extent). Just your luck that you managed to hit the topic of Valorant. By the way he perked up subtly, you had to assume it was of interest to him. Progress was progress, and you were quite satisfied with how you’d managed to chip the ice. That is, until the dreaded question arose.

“What’s your rank?” Li asked, seemingly nonchalantly, but the sideward glances he shot you told you otherwise. Subtle as it was, his gaze wasn’t one so easily ignored, and you happened to notice the pale lilac of his irises rather acutely. You laughed nervously, rubbing the back of your neck in hopes he’d catch onto your awkwardness and change the topic. At this point, you weren’t sure if he was socially inept or just insensitive, because rather than act according to your hopes, he’d turned his head to look at you properly, tilting his head slightly as though prompting you to get on with your answer.

“I don’t have a rank, I don’t play comp,” you replied sheepishly. You swore you saw a flicker of disappointment cross his face, but by the time you’d blinked, his features had returned to their usual bored expression. “We can hit an internet cafe after lunch, I’ll duo with you and we’ll find your rank.”

His offer was more of a statement - no, an instruction. You felt a smidge of betrayal, not quite sure you like Kirra’s boyfriend’s roommate very much in spite of her insistence that he’d be a good match for you. Then again, you didn’t think it was her fault since you don’t exactly love Ryo very much either when she thinks he’s brilliant. Perhaps this was just another clash of opinions, since you’re sure she meant well.

Li seemed to have little interest in much else, to your mild dismay. While he would respond to any conversation topic you decided to jump into, he never quite seemed nearly as interested as he did when you brought up Valorant. Until music, that is. At which he promptly asked to see your playlist, his brows furrowing as he found little common ground. With a murmured promise to send you a few of his playlists and then some he'd try curate more towards your taste, he returned your phone.

If only your awkward date ended with a walk in the park. Lunch was an equally tense affair, with Li mostly feigning disgust at the couple with you, and you trying your best to avoid his gaze. As lovely as his eyes were, there was something cold and piercing about them that made you feel like he'd see right through you, and you weren't yet sure if you enjoyed it very much. Worse still was the way his hand found its way to your waist immediately after dropping enough money to cover both your meals in Ryo’s hands as he steered you away after lunch, bidding Ryo and Kirra farewell as he led you to an internet cafe. To his credit, he did keep his word…

“Um, look, Zhao Yu, I'm really not good at the game, I just play casually,” you began, trying to excuse yourself.

“I'll play casually with you then,” he insisted with a shrug, not at all bothered by the change in plans. Without waiting for any further protests on your part, he ushered you into the cafe. He strode up to the front desk with a comfortable familiarity, and you wouldn't be surprised if he'd told you he was a regular there. As you pondered his screentime, he had already paid for the time, once again returning to your side to usher you in. It was, in part, a sweet gesture, but a part of you felt the firmness of his hand was also partly to keep you from running off. Left with little other choice, you obliged and sat at the computer beside him.

You grinned sheepishly as your final game ended in borderline disaster.

“You weren't joking when you said you're bad,” Li quipped. For a moment, you half expected him to curse at you the way you'd heard him swear at the enemies and some teammates, but the barrage of insults never came. Instead, you felt a cold hand reach up to brush the hair from your face, his fingers gently twirling a lock of it before dropping his hand. His expression had softened, seemingly placated by the contact. “It's fine, it's not competitive…and you're cute.”

His last few words were mumbled, too mashed together for you to catch, but if the tips of his ears turning red was anything to go by, you'd guess he'd complimented you.

“Did you say something?” you pressed, hoping he'd repeat himself, but he only shook his head. “Mei shi ba, zhi shuo ni ke ai.”

Once again his words were quick, melding together like a fluid melody in his native tongue. It felt like you were hearing him properly now that he wasn't whisper-shouting at a screen, and it was…charming. You smiled to yourself. Cuteness privileges, huh? You could probably make use of that.

“Right, so how much do I owe you? For both the meal and this?”

Your questions were halted by a shake of his head and cold purple eyes enrapturing your own. “Another date, probably, I don't take cash.”

“Ah, then I guess I'll see you some other time?” So maybe he was a little pushy.

“We can plan while I walk you home. Zou ba.” Scratch that, he was a lot pushy. But it was part of his charm, you'd suppose, from the way he'd kept you on the inner side of the sidewalk to the protective hand on your waist as he insisted on escorting you to your door, Li Zhao Yu was a very straightforward individual, especially when it came to his interests.

“Zai jian le…unless you've anything else to say before I go?” The slight bit of hope in his voice was apparent.

“Thanks.”

“I don't need thanks from you, I want to do things for you.”

It was hard not to giggle at his bluntness. “I know, you make that quite clear,” you point out, kissing his cheek as a goodbye.

Perhaps for the first time on your date, Li was speechless. You'd tease him for it if you weren't into him too. Well, there's always more opportunities on future dates.

#iso x reader #valorant iso

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schrijverr · 5 months ago

Text

An Odd Job

5 times Buck drops some random information about his time traveling and the odd jobs he worked + 1 time they realize it’s not that at all.

AKA a Navy Seal Buck AU where his years traveling were a cover for missions.

On AO3.

Ships: none

Warnings: guns, military, mentions of death and violence

~~~

1. Rappelling Down

The first time it happens is on a call, something the 118 isn’t new to. Buck is still on probation, but has already settled in quite a bit. He’s a friendly guy and having people around him makes him thrive, as does the work. Even if he’s a bit irresponsible now and then.

Right now, they’re answering a call about a kid who climbed out of the apartment building window when playing spy then got stuck on a ledge high up. They can’t reach it with the ladder, so they’re rappelling down from the roof.

As Buck is strapping himself into the harness and getting ready to go over, he grins: “Oh, I missed this.”

“What, the few times in training got you hooked?” Chimney grins, while Hen and Bobby shake their head slightly at their newest recruit.

“Nah, used to rappel down all the time before this,” Buck answers, fasting the last bits.

“What?” Hen asks, checking his lines, just to be sure.

“Oh, I traveled a lot. Did odd jobs. One of them was at a rappelling business. Let me tell you, real handy when training for this,” Buck says, sending her a big beaming smile, before getting on the edge of the roof and expertly jumping down.

The kid has his foot stick in a fence, which isn’t optimal for getting him out, but has luckily prevented him from falling. Buck first secures him in a harness of his own, attaching that to himself, as he radios for Chimney to come join him with a saw.

Once Chimney is down there, he hands the saw to Buck so he can check the injury. Despite being attached to the kid and working in Chimney’s area, Buck stays out of the way the entire time. It’s not often like that, even with seasoned firefighters. Working when dangling form a building is always harder than on the ground.

So, when they’re back up on the roof, Chimney claps Buck on the back and grins: “Nice work out there. That rappelling business must be pretty good.”

“Yeah, one of the best,” Buck returns, his grin slightly knowing in a way Chimney can’t place.

However, before he can ask about it, Bobby cuts in: “You did well, but don’t get overconfident. You are not playing spy out here, you just saw what can happen if you do.”

“Guess I’m not,” Buck nods. “Won’t let it happen, Cap.”

“Good, now lets pack up.”

2. Shrapnel Wounds

Eddie has been confused about Buck all day long. The guy fucking hates him for no reason since the second he arrived, and for what, because he gets along with his team? That’s a good thing. Even if it’s not all the team, apparently.

However, mostly Eddie has been curious about what is up with him while they actually work. This case with the shrapnel has made Buck quite a mystery to Eddie. Because he’s been having a one sided pissing contest all day with Eddie, but he clearly knows something about this sort of thing, but he’s not saying anything.

He first notices that Buck doesn’t want to see the wound. This is not that strange and he brushes it off, but a part of him supposed Buck was the kind of guy who would want to see it, maybe get a kick out of it. But he hadn’t, just got to work with a familiar disinterest, as if this was nothing new.

Then, it’s in the ambulance. Sure, he brings up the rebar as way to be annoying, but when Eddie uncovers the gold cap, Buck’s face gets worried before Eddie can explain the difference between the caps, as if he’d already known.

Buck also offers to go into that ambulance way too easily, strapping on the bullet proof vest as if he’s done it multiple times before. Eddie is pretty sure that is not common, even in LA.

But the final confusing piece of the puzzle is after they get the thing out and wheel their patient over to the hospital. He and Buck have found a camaraderie together and he’s about to let the whole thing go when the bomb in the ambulance explodes.

Bobby flinches immediately, while Eddie doesn’t react at all, used to it. Buck does an interesting mix of both. Eddie watches him not react, then flinch a little too exaggerated with a delay.

Unable to help himself, he asks: “This not your first bomb call?”

“What?”

“I mean, you kinda seemed to know what was happening today,” Eddie explains, gesturing to Buck.

“All the military explosives stuff?” Buck asks and Eddie nods. There’s a flicker of something, but Eddie doesn’t know him well enough to place it, before it’s wiped away as Buck grins and claps him on the back. “Nah, man, you’re the one that can know about all that stuff, I just followed you lead.”

“Seemed mighty comfortable with that explosive,” Eddie pushes, even though he knows he shouldn’t, because they are just getting along and having good team dynamic is so important.

Buck, fortunately doesn’t seem to care, throwing an arm around him as he says: “I traveled a lot, landmines are surprisingly common when you get to the wrong places by accident. First time up close though. What do you say about a drink to celebrate your first explosion with the 118.”

3. Molotov Cocktails

They are on duty, but not on a call when Buck makes another reference to his travels. Though, they have just returned from a call when he does.

He is joining them at the couches, right as Hen says: “I can’t believe those kids thought it was a good idea to try and see if molotov cocktails worked like they did in the movies.”

“And without a plan if the answer was yes too,” Chimney huffs, a little annoyed since he lost an eyebrow due to the incident.

“Not to mention that they made shitty molotov cocktails,” Buck joins in plopping down on the couch. “I mean, if you’re going to do it, at least do it right. Everyone knows benzine or oil is better for it than fricking vodka.”

He gets himself situated and takes a sip of coffee before looking at everyone, who is giving him judgmental and/or confused looks. “What?” he says.

“How do you know that, Buck?” Hen asks, raising a brow at him and titling her head in a very specific and scary way.

“Hey, I didn’t do that,” Buck defends himself.

“Okay, so do tell. How does our little bad boy know the best way to make a molotov cocktail, huh?” Eddie teases.

“I was a bartender for a bit in Peru. One of the older guys there was involved in some of the civil unrest, knew stuff, liked talking about it. Can’t blame me for listening when he was talking big explosions and fires,” Buck grins at them, a little sheepishly.

“You’re a firefighter,” Hen deadpans.

“I had a fascination?” Buck suggests, more than tries to justify himself.

“You sure are something, man,” Eddie laughs, tugging Buck towards him so he can ruffle his hair in a way he knows annoys the shit out of Buck.

“Oh fuck off,” Buck rolls his eyes as he attempts to fight Eddie off, though it’s a weak attempt. He likes the camaraderie they have, the family he’s built. Even if he’s not completely honest with them about everything.

4. The Gun

This situation is bad. Very bad. LAFD rarely has to deal with unsecured scenes and suspects still on the loose, especially when the suspect has a firearm. However, rarely doesn’t mean never and this is pretty bad.

There is a victim bleeding to death and stuck out there, but a gunman still on the lose. The 118 want to move in so they can save this woman’s life, but the LAPD isn’t letting them.

Of course they understand that they have to be safe, however, it hurts to see someone in need of aid and to be there with all their gear, yet be unable to do anything. It’s not in their nature. It’s against their nature in fact.

Bobby is arguing loudly with the police on the scene, until he gets his way. The shooter is apparently far enough away that they deem it safe to move in, albeit with escort. Thankful for that, the 118 get to work.

Sadly, not everything goes to plan, the gunman circles back and their escort partially leaves to be back up. Not moments later the gunman comes running around the corner, an assault rifle in hand and a whole lot of police on his trail.

What is left of their escort tightens rank as shots cease to be fired, since they’re now in the line of fire.

A brave idiot tackles the shooter from the side and the gun slips from the man’s hand as they scramble on the floor. Everyone is advised to stay back, but Buck is already running, snatching the gun up from the ground and disarming it, chucking the ammo as far away as he can before going in the other direction.

The police get the man in cuffs, but Athena is stalking towards him, snatching the gun out of his hand as she snaps: “What in the hell were you thinking? Or were you not thinking?”

“I just wanted to make sure he couldn’t grab it and injure someone else,” Buck says, looking back more defiantly than expected.

“And why on God’s green earth did you think you knew how to do that?” Athena interrogates further.

“I, uh,” Buck rubs the back of his head, his face becoming sheepish as he says: “I worked at a paintball range. Pretty accurate those things.”

“A paintball range?” Athena repeats, her tone implying that there will be a bigger lecture later and Buck won’t be able to escape from her.

5. Parachute Skills

“What an incredibly reckless and unbelievably stupid thing to do, firefighter Buckley,” Bobby berates Buck, who is still unbuckling himself from a parachute.

“It was the best call and you know it, Cap,” Buck argues back, not taking the admonishing when he knows he’s right. “If I hadn’t climbed into that plane, we never would have made it out with the patient alive.”

Behind them they hear a relieved Chimney exclaim: “Patient is stable, ready for transport. Let’s move.”

As if to say, see, point proven, Buck raises his brows at Bobby and opens his arms.

“You got onto an unsecured plane balancing on the edge of a cliff, against my direct orders, then proceeded to jump out of it with a patient, while you have no qualifications to do so,” Bobby reminds him.

“It was the fastest way to get him to medical help, since air evac wasn’t gonna be here on time. I knew what I was doing,” Buck says, obviously hurt that Bobby doesn’t trust him.

“I don’t think you did,” Bobby replies, a hint of desperation and disappointment coating his voice. “You do things without thinking them through, because you assume everything will work out fine, but one of these days, it won’t. You take unnecessary risks and you don’t follow orders.”

“I follow orders just fine, I’m just also capable of making risk assessments by myself,” Buck scowls. “He had a femoral artery bleeding, no spinal injuries. He needed to go to an ambulance and fast, we couldn’t get him out there on time. He had to go down. I found a way down.”

“By parachuting!?” Bobby shouts.

“Yes, by parachuting!”

“Did you ever stop to think how wrong that could go, Buck? For Pete’s sake you’re a firefighter, we see these accidents. You could’ve made the patient’s situation worse and injured yourself.”

“And did you ever stop to think that I knew what I was doing?” Buck yells back, chest heaving in frustration and anger. “You really think that I wasted my early twenties seeing the world without jumping out of a few planes? Do you think I would’ve put that patient’s life at risk like that? Is that really what you think of me?”

Bobby can see in his eyes how much he’s hurting and then realizes how he doesn’t want to have this screaming match. He takes a deep breath, then replies in calmer voice: “No matter how much you know, accidents can still happen and on paper, you don’t have the qualifications to do this. If something had gone wrong, you would’ve been on the hook for it. You still might be.”

Buck looks away, still frowning and his jaw set. He brushes past Bobby, nearly colliding with him as he bites: “Fine, next time I’ll let the patient die, if that’s what you want.”

+1. Sniper Dora

After the parachute incident, which luckily had been cleared up without major consequences for Buck’s job, things had settled within the 118. Buck now had the papers to make such a rescue within their parameters in the future and he and Bobby had worked it out best they could.

However, things are still a bit weird between them. Bobby knows there is something about the whole thing that he doesn’t know, but prodding makes Buck shut down. Meanwhile Buck knows the Captain can’t help it, but he still wishes the other would trust him more, not always immediately think him irresponsible or reckless.

Then the call comes in.

A chopper has hit a high rise and is stuck without a way to get in. It’s a military chopper too and they’re requested to coordinate with the commander on site about how best to deal with the cargo… whatever that cargo may be.

They arrive to the roof, so that they can start securing the chopper before attempting a rescue. There is a man that greets them, wearing combat gear, gun slung over his shoulder. He shakes Bobby’s hand, explaining that he was in the chopper that’s parked on the roof, before something was wrong with the other one and it went down.

“We’ll get it secured and try to get your men out safe and sound,” Bobby assures him.

“Thank you, Captain,” the man nods, before he calls out: “Oi, Dora, that you? Hope you still have that killer aim, I’m gonna a need a favor before you can secure that chopper.”

Everyone is now confused, however, before Bobby can ask for clarification, Buck replies, much to everyone’s surprise. He sighs: “I really hate that call sign, Dig. But I can still aim.”

He walks forward and shakes the man’s – Dig apparently – hand, before pulling him into a bro-hug. As Dig claps him on the back, he says: “Great, because we were transporting an informant in that chopper that I need tranqued, because this has turned into a hostage situation.”

Dig hands Buck some sort of gun that he takes without blinking as the 118 just stares at the duo in confusion. Buck raises an eyebrow at Dig and smirks: “What happened to informant?”

“Hey, I never said willing informant,” Dig holds his hands up in surrender.

“Of course,” Buck says, taking the safety of the gun and peering over the edge.

“Okay, can someone please tell me what’s happening,” Bobby interrupts.

“Yes, who allowed Buck to have a gun,” a concerned Hen adds.

“Buck?” Dig asks Buck.

“Better than Dora, right,” Buck grins back.

Dig turns to the others and says: “Dora, or Buck, here, worked with my team, before he worked with yours. This is need to know only, so let’s keep this part off the records. I’ll say Nugget took the shot.”

“Nugget, really?” Buck asks, nearly offended, looking back to the parked chopper.

One of the guys sitting on the side raises his hand and smiles: “Sup, Dora.”

“Sup, Nugget,” Buck returns, before refocusing on his task.

“And why will Buck take the shot when you have other personnel available?” Bobby demands.

“Cause my usual sniper is down there,” Dig nods down to the chopper.

“Sniper?” Eddie repeats, looking at Buck.

The others follow suit and Buck squirms under the attention. He blushes: “Let’s keep the questions until after we secured the chopper, okay. It can still go down unless we do something. We don’t have time for this.” To Dig he says: “What’s the guy’s name?”

“Tim.”

“Tim?” Buck repeats, surprised.

“I don’t know what to tell you, man, but it’s Tim,” Dig shrugs.

“Alright,” Buck shrugs, leaning over the edge and calling out: “Hey, Tim. I see you have a gun there. You can aim it at my face, but with your vantage point, there’s a higher chance you’ll hit the blades and the bullet will ricochet and maybe hit you, or you break the blades and the chopper goes down. You can surrender now and we’ll come rescue you, no harm, no foul.”

“No, you won’t take me again, I have the power now,” Tim yells back.

“Okay, your call,” Buck replies, getting ready to make the shot.

In the background he can hear Chimney asking: “If, uhm, Tim down there has a bad vantage point to make a shot, how do we know Buck’ll make it?”

“Of course he’ll make the shot,” Dig huffs out in amusement. “There’s no better shot than Dora. Never worked with a better sniper since him. Was sad to see him go.”

Buck blocks it all out, he takes a deep breath, holds it, aims and fires. It’s a fluid motion, one born out of a lot of practice. He keeps holding it, until the tranq makes contact with the target. When he has established he made the shot, he calls out: “Target hit, chopper cleared of hostiles.” He hands Dig the gun back and starts grabbing his usual gear as he says: “Let’s go secure this thing.”

This isn’t an easy or routine job, so most slap on their professionalism as they set to freeing the men trapped in the chopper. However, Buck feels the glances the entire time.

Still, in a way, it’s good to see old friend again. Even if they’re all still dickheads. They secure the chopper to the roof, allowing for the blades to be turned off, then rappel in. As Buck lands, Gus grins: “Hey, it really is you. I thought Dig was pulling our leg.”

“Couldn’t let you sit here, someone had to come save your ass,” Buck says, attaching Gus to his harness so they can be pulled up.

“It’s good to see you, Dora,” Gus says.

“Yeah, yeah, still hate that name,” Buck rolls his eyes, but the tone is fond.

“Oh come on, those ladies were right you know, you truly are adorable. Few years and you’re still baby faced.” Gus’s face is nearly splitting in two with that shit eating grin of his, pinching Buck’s cheek.

Buck hands him over to Chimney for a quick check up, saying: “He might seem like he has a head injury, he doesn’t. Gus over here is just naturally that stupid.”

“You love me,” Gus singsongs.

“I hate you,” Buck singsongs back, jumping back over the edge to get the next guy.

Soon everyone, including the tranqued informant, has been rescued and checked over. There are people on the way to get the chopper down properly, but the others will continue on. They have places to be and manage to fit themselves into the one chopper.

Though not before saying their goodbyes with Buck, making him promise to come hang out with them again. Buck smiles broadly at all of them, returning hugs and claps on the back as he returns to promise to stay in touch.

The second that chopper is off the roof, everyone is on Buck. Chimney slides up next to him first, saying: “So, why Dora?”

“Ugh,” Buck groans. “It’s almost as embarrassing as your Chimney story. Infiltrated the wrong house, bunch of nice ladies though. Helped them with their door and they kept calling me adorable, which…”

“Got shortened to Dora over time,” Eddie fills in, knowing how that works.

“Yup.”

“God, glad I remained Diaz throughout my service,” Eddie grimaces in sympathy, as Buck gives him a pained nod of thanks.

Bobby appears in front of Buck crossing his arms as he gives him this questioning look. “Care to explain exactly what Dig meant with you running with his team before running with ours.”

“I, uh- I was a Navy SEAL, before joining the 118,” Buck explains, rubbing the back of his head.

“I thought you said you dropped out of training to become a Navy Seal, because you couldn’t turn off your emotions, become a robot like they wanted you too,” Bobby says.

“That was only half a lie,” Buck defends himself, though he looks apologetic about it. “That is the reason I quit, I just didn’t quit training, but the force itself. I mean, being a SEAL is pretty good, but at some point, it- it just started to weigh on me.”

“Being a sniper can be rough,” Eddie says. “Some of my buddies from the army were snipers, they always had a look in their eyes.”

“Yeah,” Buck agrees, his own eyes becoming far away. “You- It’s not a firefight wherein everyone is shooting. You line up that shot and watch it through to the end. You know it’s you, you know what you did. I didn’t want take lives. I joined the army to serve, to keep people safe, but that’s not what they do. I couldn’t stay there.”

It’s a lot darker than what they’re used to from their youngest member and all look at him for a moment.

Hen steps forward first, sling an arm around Buck as she gently smiles: “Well, I’m glad you found a place here, with us. Doing what you want to do. What you were made to do.”

Buck smiles back at her, the life thankfully returning to his eyes. He tugs her hug closer and says: “I am also glad I found you guys.”

“So, why did you hide it?” Chimney asks as they make their way back down to the engine. “I mean, being a Navy SEAL is about as cool as it gets. Didn’t think you had it in you to keep that hidden.”

“Well, contrary to popular belief, I am not as irresponsible as I look, and like Dig said, it’s mostly need to know basis,” Buck shrugs.

“The parachute,” Bobby says knowingly.

“The parachute,” Buck agrees. “Told you I knew what I was doing.”

“I couldn’t have known,” Bobby points out rightfully and Buck gives a conceding nod.

“None of us could. Hell, Maddie doesn’t know, she told me about the postcards, those were mostly from US soil. How did you pull that off?” Chimney comments. “And why?”

Buck answers: “I asked the others to ask partners, spouses, parents, siblings to send them empty cards so I could send them to Maddie. Took pictures when I dressed up for undercover work. I lied to Maddie, because I didn’t wanna worry her. She already had enough going on with Doug and our parents. Easier to be careless and free, than in danger.”

“You have to tell her,” Chimney says.

“Yeah, you really do,” Hen agrees. “You know Chimney can’t keep a secret to save his life. She’ll have heard all about it by the time he’s through the door.”

“Can’t you keep this one?” Buck pleads as they drop of their gear.

“Nu-uh, no way,” Chimney says, getting into the engine. “I am gonna drive myself crazy if you make me do that.”

“But now she’s gonna worry all over me, even though I’m fine,” Buck whines, showing them he’s still their Buck.

“She’s an older sibling, it’s what they do,” Eddie says, patting him on the back as he passes.

“You all are the worst,” Buck pouts.

“For wanting you to not lie to your sister about what you’ve been up to for the last few years?” Bobby asks.

“Yeah!” Buck exclaims, throwing up his hands. “She is such a worrywart, you have no idea what our childhood was like. Her worrying is truly something of legends. Back me up here, Chim.”

“Oh no, I’m staying on her good side in case any of this ever comes back to her,” Chimney backs out as fast as he can.

“That is so unfair,” Buck whines some more.

“No, what is unfair is you trying to put me in the middle of the Buckley family drama, Dora,” Chimney argues back.

“We are so not calling me Dora,” Buck warns.

“Then tell your sister,” Eddie says, before driving away.

“Yes, or Dora will definitely stick. We’re persistent,” Hen backs him up.

“Why are you all ganging up on me?”

“Come on, you’re big tough, macho Navy SEAL guy, surely you can take us mere civilians,” Chimney taunts.

“Eddie is an army guy too,” Buck points out.

“Yeah, army not SEALs, you can be the one that knows about all that stuff now,” Eddie says.

“You still remember that?”

“Course, I thought there was something weird about you during that shrapnel call. I mean, I wouldn’t have guessed this, but your excuses got a little weird during that one,” Eddie shrugs.

“Oh my god,” Chimney says, just realizing something. “That rappelling business you worked at, did you mean the US government. You called the Navy SEALs a rappelling business.”

“I mean, they technically are when you think about it,” Buck defends himself. “They sure made me do a lot of rappelling and rappelling training.”

“I can’t believe you,” Hen shrieks, though it’s slightly delighted.

“And I assume the paintball range you worked for according to Athena is also the US government,” Bobby joined in.

“God, you’re excuses were pretty bad in hind sight.”

“Hey, you guys all believed me, so that is mostly on you.”

“Oh you did not just call us stupid!”

“Stop, Hen, your elbow hurts.”

“Ach, stop your whining.”

They continue to bicker as they drive away from the scene and back to the fire house. Buck knows it will take some getting used to, having this part of his life exposed. However, it’s nice to be able to share this with his family.

As much as he likes the people he knows from his time as Navy SEAL, it never felt fully right to bond with them over the things they’ve done. That team was always more like a fostering, the 118 is his forever home.

A/N:

I'm sorry if the layout looks weird, im having issues with my landlord abt wifi, so i had to do this on my phone :D

#rr writing #9 1 1 #911 #911 abc #9-1-1 #evan buckley #eddie diaz #hen wilson #chimney han #bobby nash #athena grant #navy seal!buck #9 1 1 fanfiction #118 firefam #firefam #tw: guns #tw: military

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darklinaforever · 2 months ago

Note

I support Team Black; Rhaenyra and her descendants have the rightful claim to the IT over Aegon and his children. I have a question about a scenario I saw pop up recently in a HOTD fanfic. I thought it was rather hypocritical, but maybe there's something I'm missing.

The Greens win and Aegon names Jaehaera as his heir, codifying it into law; has her wed her Uncle Daeron to secure her claim; and has the lords kneel to her multiple times. Granted, this is more than Viserys did for Rhaenyra, but it still strikes me as hypocritical considering the Greens were all about Aegon becoming King because he is a man, and in this fic he names his daughter as his own heir because of Jaehaerys' death and his own injuries at RR.

Your thoughts? I have read a bare handful of pro-Green fics that I actually liked due to the fair and balanced treatment of the Blacks even though Rhaenyra loses the IT (one actually has the POD of her disinheritance occurring during the timeskip between 1x07 and 1x08; the second has events start to diverge a bit during 1x08 and the war still happens), but this story just baffled me.

Aegon II would never have designated Jaehaera as his heir, the proof being that he did not do so canonically. And why ? Well precisely because it would have made no sense, since all his claims were based on being a man compared to Rhaenyra who was a woman. So it was therefore impossible for him to designate his daughter as heir. That and the fact is that he was a misogynist himself. Basically, yes, Aegon II naming Jaehaera heir would have been super hypocritical.

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valleyof-goldenlilies · 1 year ago

Text

Se Zaldrīzoti' Prūmia - Chapter 3: When The Lance Fells The Falcon (Daemon Targaryen x Tyrell!Reader)

Chapter 3: When The Lance Fells The Falcon

The day of the Heir Tournament has finally arrived, and what is a joust without some bloodshed?

HOTD Masterlist | Main Masterlist |

Warnings: TW! Depictions of violence, mentions of blood, Daemon being an asshole, angst, the continuation of my blood feud against HOTD’s costuming department

Word Count: 4.3k words

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire and Blood characters, save for Y/N Tyrell, although I did expand on their characterisation, which might deviate from canon. All credit for the characters goes to George RR Martin and the showrunners of HOTD. The GIF above is also not mine, original credit to the creator is stated above. Go check them out!

A/N: With all the explicit detailing I included about the character’s dresses, would you guys maybe be interested for me to post some of my fashion designs here, so you guys can get a clearer vision of what I envisioned the characters wearing? Because I find it extremely difficult to translate my designs into words lol, blame my lack of fashion background. And from this chapter on, things are going to start getting serious.

Also recommended that you listen to ‘There Are Worse Games To Play’ on the Hunger Games soundtrack while you read this chapter, particularly towards the end 💗

lovely dividers credited to @firefly-graphics as always!

The fire crackled merrily in Lady Y/N’s chambers, although the room was filled with a ruminative silence. Night had once again descended on the Red Keep, and after tending to Aemma all day, who was in more discomfort than usual, Y/N was exhausted.

She was still simmering with displeasure at Daemon’s words from that afternoon. One could argue that Daemon was merely being careless with his words, but Y/N knew better. Just like many other people, he disregarded her based on her gender. She thought maybe Daemon would be different since he cared not for the restraints society has put on him, but it appears she was nothing but a fool to ever think positively of him.

I sighed, my fingers continuing to weave the bonnet for Aemma’s babe, even though I found no pleasure in the task. Daemon’s words this afternoon had sent me tumbling into an unpleasant spiral of emotions, and I directed my dark gaze towards the roaring fire, where the charred remains of my father’s letter still sat.

Lord Matthos and Lady Primrose, Lord and Lady of Highgarden, and my parents. With my lady mother dead now, and me being their unfortunate sole surviving child, my father had directed his focus on getting me married off as soon as possible. “You must wed and produce heirs that could inherit Highgarden,” my father had insisted, pleaded, even. “I know with your...reputation, it might be difficult to find a match, but you are no longer young anymore, and you must marry as soon as possible. It is the duty you owe to House Tyrell.”

“My duty,” I snorted, nearly pricking myself with the needle in the process. It was simply unfair, why must I be expected to marry and pump out babes for my husband while men like Daemon could prance about freely without a care in the world? I wanted to enjoy my youth, as was my right. Why should i care for duty? Even if my father required heirs, House Tyrell was not lacking in any cousins that could inherit if he should pass.

Indignation coursed through my blood as I began increasing the speed in which I was weaving the bonnet. Even Aemma had reminded me on more than one occasion of the importance of duty, and I was sick of it. There was just some part of me that couldn’t grasp why everyone was so fixated on it. The Seven had granted us one chance at life: one should revel in it by pursuing their own desires. And besides, after witnessing Aemma’s grief and pain over her many miscarriages and stillbirths, I shuddered to think what duty might have in store for me. I was determined that I would not succumb to the notion of the dutiful, heir producing daughter that my father so wished me to be, no matter how much my father pleaded with me. After all, if Daemon could evade it as long as he did, surely I could do the same.

I frowned as I eyed the finished bonnet. Not as pretty as I envisioned, but children grow fast anyway. I went over to the window, gazing at the Dragonpit, dark and imposing against the night sky. It only made me think of a certain princeling, and I huffed, drawing my curtains shut. Rubbing my temples and exhaling heavily. I decided not to waste any more of my thoughts on the Rogue Prince. Clambering into bed, I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

I had not expected to be in attendance at the tournament today. Aemma had been experiencing increasing bouts of pain for the past few days, and I wanted to keep her company should the babe be close to making its arrival in this world. Unexpectedly, I had been nearly dragged out of Aemma’s apartments by Rhaenyra and Alicent early in the morrow, with Aemma insisting I go spectate the tourney instead of staying with her like a watchful owl. I had argued, but Aemma specifically called upon Rhaenyra and Alicent as reinforcement, with some explicit threats that I would be quartered, hung and my head placed on a spike should I refuse to attend.

Thus here I was, in the royal box, my face etched with concern as my mind kept wandering over to Aemma. I prayed fervently to the Seven that she would not go into labour in my absence, and to the Mother that if she did, that her labour would be smooth and painless.

“What say you, Y/N?” I was pulled out of my reverie, eyes wide as I muttered an unintelligible “Huh?” Rhaenyra rolled her eyes good-naturedly while Alicent struggled to hide her giggles. “I was just discussing with Alicent why you seem to be favouring gowns of Tyrell green as of late. Usually, we noticed you would be in lighter shades.” My gaze shifted downward, surprised at her observation.

I was dressed in my best, another gown of Tyrell green silk, with fitted sleeves that trailed to a more sheer, but still dark green material that flared out below my elbows. Several gold roses adorned my shoulders, interspersed with tiny rubies. The neckline dipped slightly in the valley of my breasts, but anything that could cause scandal was covered by a layer of Myrish lace. The dress’ skirts clung to my figure, parting at the centre to reveal an underskirt of olive green and gold brocade. It had cost a fortune, and had once belonged to my mother. My signature gold earrings adorned my earlobes, and my hair was pinned into an elegant braided updo. I might dislike the idea of duty to my house, but regardless, I had to represent House Tyrell in the best light possible, especially at such an important event.

Rhaenyra and Alicent were decked out in their finest for the occasion as well. Rhaenyra was clad in Targaryen colours, and I admired the black corset that looked reminiscent of armour fitted across her upper half of her body. Dragon scales were painstakingly patterned on the corset, and they were held together by laces made of fine golden thread. Underneath the corset, she wore a dark red gown with an intricately pleated skirt. The sleeves were off the shoulder, going down to her wrists. Gold shoulder plates set in a dragonscale pattern with gold fringes protected her bare shoulders from the autumn chill. She wore a heavyset necklace cut with square shaped rubies, hammered into gold, and her hair was let loose in a wild cascade of curls. She looked every inch a Targaryen warrior princess. Alicent was dressed simpler, but still looked beautiful nonetheless. A light blue dress of brocade and silk with a square neckline hugged her soft curves, exposing a little bit of her collarbone, where two strands of pearls were draped across her neck. Her sleeves were puffed at the shoulders, stopping short just before her elbow, while the rest of her sleeves were fitted tightly to her wrists. Small delicate flowers were sewn at the hem of her sleeves. Her skirts parted at the centre to reveal an underlying layer of cream white brocade, and her bodice had crisscrossing geometric diamond patterns sewn on it, dipping at her waist with a point. Her hair was fashioned in a half up, half down hairdo, curls tumbling to the small of her back. Both of them had inquisitive looks in their eyes, though Rhaenyra’s harboured a glimpse of impatience.

I smiled a little awkwardly at the question. Truth be told, I had no idea why. My thoughts had been taking on a darker turn since my encounter with Daemon in the throne room and the raven sent by my lord father, and I supposed my choice of apparel reflected my mood. “Well, at such a celebration, it is only fitting of me to dress in the colours of my house.” I reasoned, tilting my head slightly. “Do the darker gowns not suit me?”

“All colours suit you well, my lady.” Alicent said gently. I smiled gratefully at her, as Rhaenyra turned to Alicent and asked teasingly if she suited any colour as well. My smile widened as I watched the two bicker playfully.

We were interrupted however, by the arrival of the King. We all stood up to greet him, bowing politely. He was beaming from ear to ear, as he began addressing the crowd, much to the raucous cheers of the crowd.

“The day has been made more auspicious, by the news I am happy to share: Queen Aemma has begun her labours!” My eyes widened upon hearing those words, and as soon as the King finished his address, I stood up, ready to excuse myself to go tend to Aemma, when I felt a hand on my shoulder, effectively halting my attempts of a hasty exit. “Viserys-”

“I know you want to be there for Aemma,” the corner of Viserys’ eyes crinkled as he spoke gently, trying to push me back down to my seat, “But she asked me to relay a message: trust that she will be alright, and enjoy the tourney instead. It will be your only time to relax before you are swept up in your duties to take care of the babe.”

I bit my lip, a sense of unease washing over me. “But-” “You must stay and enjoy the tourney. Your King commands it. As does your Queen.” I glanced at him, eyes filled with worry, but he only nodded encouragingly.

“If my king commands…I shall obey,” I said with some reluctance, although it dissipated somewhat when Viserys beamed at me, clapping my shoulder affectionately before sitting back down. I sat back down too, my eyes wandering over to Rhaenyra, who gave me a smile, which I returned. I said a silent prayer to the Seven as the first few contenders were being announced, that both Aemma and her babe would be safe and healthy.

The first of the tilts began, to the boisterous cheers of the crowd. I watched as a jouster carrying a shield with a sigil unknown to me quickly unhorsed a squire of House Tarly. My brows furrowed., I turned to Rhaenyra, “Do you recognise the sigil that the mystery knight was carrying?” She shook her head. Alicent leaned over, eyes fixed on the knight as he steered his horse before the royal box and bowed, “I think he’s from House Cole. Of the Stormlands, I believe.”

Rhaenyra wrinkled her nose, “I’ve never heard of House Cole. This should prove most interesting.” I pursed my lips as Lord Boremund Baratheon asked for Princess Rhaenys’ favour, addressing her as “The Queen Who Never Was”, causing the crowd to stir a little in dissent. “You could have Baratheon’s tongue for that.” “Tongues will not change the succession,” came Viserys’ assured response. “Let them wag.”

“Lord Stokeworth’s daughter is promised to that young Tarly squire.” “Lord Massey’s son?” Alicent inquired, a little surprised. Rhaenyra nodded, “They’re to be married as soon as he wins his knighthood.” I snorted, remembering some of the unsavoury rumours I had heard swirling around the court as of late. “Best get on with it,” my voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, “I’ve heard that Lady Elinor is hiding a swollen belly beneath her dress.” Rhaenyra's eyes widened in disbelief, and Alicent clapped a hand over her mouth as if reeling from the sheer impropriety of it, while I merely shrugged, a smirk tugging at my lips and turned my gaze back to the proceedings.

I leaned forward in my seat, intrigued when the mystery knight of House Cole unhorsed Lord Boremund in a single tilt, much to the crowd’s delight and mocking laughs. Rhaenyra let out a small “oof” sound, while Alicent looked dumbstruck. Mayhaps the tourney would be of some excitement after all.

“Prince Daemon, of House Targaryen, Prince of the City, will now choose his first opponent!” The smile that was forming at my lips dropped in an instant, and I pursed my lips as Daemon, clad in his black armour, raced past the audience astride his black steed, much to the enthusiastic cheers of the crowd. I rolled my eyes: show off.

I was unsurprised and somewhat amused when Daemon chose Ser Gwayne Hightower as his first jousting opponent. Of course, Daemon chose today to be even more of a little shit than usual. Oftentimes, I wondered if he gained his life essence from pissing Otto Hightower off. I craned my neck backwards to catch a glimpse of the Hand’s expression, my lips curving upwards in a smirk when I took note of his irked expression.

Suddenly, I felt a heavy stare upon me, and I turned back to the spectacle to see Daemon’s violet eyes fixed on me. When he met my gaze, that little shit had the audacity to smirk and tilt his lance at me. I huffed and turned away, fixing my eyes on Ser Gwayne instead.

I had to bite my lip to stifle a laugh as Daemon’s lance was nearly knocked out of his hand by a well angled tilt by Ser Gwayne. Mayhaps that smug bastard will get some comeuppance today, I thought with glee.

That glee was short lived as Ser Gwayne was thrown from his horse in an unsightly scene, when Daemon aimed for his horse’s legs, causing the animal to neigh with agony as it slid forward and bucked Ser Gwayne off into the dirt. I heard Alicent gasp with fright next to me, and I reached out to pat her hand reassuringly. That cheating bastard really had no scruples when it came to dealing with Otto Hightower, even to his kin.

I frowned as I watched Daemon parade around on his horse, looking all too pleased with himself. I was caught off guard however, when Daemon came to a stop in front of the royal box, prompting Rhaenyra to get out of her seat, tugging me and Alicent with her. I was screaming internally for Rhaenyra not to drag me into this, but I begrudgingly followed Rhaenyra as she leaned over the railing, grinning at Daemon. “Nicely done, uncle,” Rhaenyra complimented him, causing Daemon to tilt his chin upwards arrogantly. “Thank you, Princess.”

He smirked as he zeroed in on me, lingering behind Alicent. “Lady Y/N,” he called, a certain mischief in his voice. Oh no.

“You look rather radiant today, dressed in your house colours.” I narrowed my eyes, aware of his attempts to bait me, by first paying me a compliment, so that if I rejected him, I would seem ill-mannered. But with so many eyes on us, I could only respond through gritted teeth, “Thank you, my prince.”

“With such a beautiful lady as the one before me, I’d be remiss if I didn’t ask for her favour.” Murmurs echoed throughout the crowd, as I attempted to minimise the lethality of my death glare. This brazen little punk. To ask for my favour after what he had said yesterday-

I leaned forward, whispering harshly, “What in the seven hells do you think you’re doing?” Daemon merely raised an eyebrow. “You know I am certain I can win these little games. Having your favour would all but assure it. You won’t rebuff me with so many eyes watching us, won’t you, byka zaldrizes?”

Grinding my teeth, I did my best to keep my expression neutral. He was right, the crowd was getting restless. I could hear some murmuring from the lords behind me, and even Rhaenyra was nudging me subtly. The gods have chosen to curse me on this very day. I sighed, before moving to retrieve my favour, a small wreath of orange and purple flowers. Sliding it down the lance Daemon offered up, I forced a smile on my face. “I wish you good luck in the jousts, my prince.”

Daemon smirked, having gotten under her skin like he wanted. “With your favour, I’m sure I don’t need it.” Daemon rode away as I rolled my eyes and took my seat once more, Rhaenyra and Alicent following suit. “It appears the Prince Daemon is attempting to play nice today, Lady Y/N,” Alicent smiled at me. Rhaenyra nodded earnestly, “Mayhaps he is starting to be civil to you, Y/N.” I had to refrain from snorting and saying something very derogatory about the Prince, instead letting my surly expression do all the talking.

As Lady Y/N was distracted by the frenzy of the tourney, a maester sidled up to the Hand of the King to relay a message. The Hand’s eyes turned grim, and he turned towards Viserys, whose expression was still filled with mirth after witnessing his brother ask Y/N for her favour. Upon hearing the news, the King’s face visibly blanched, and he got out of his seat swiftly, followed closely by the Hand.

Y/N, Alicent and Rhaenyra were engaged in fervent conversation, completely absorbed in the proceedings. But soon enough, the tourney had given way to violence and bloodshed. Y/N winced and averted her gaze as one after the other, the jousters who chose to continue their battle in arms caved in each other’s heads, fighting each other like feral beasts. A wave of nausea rolled over her, and she did her best to block out the sound of agonised grunts and screams from the bludgeoned competitors. Looking over, she saw Alicent picking at her own fingernails till it was bloody. Frowning, she quickly nudged Alicent, who immediately stopped with a sheepish expression. Covering Alicent’s hand with hers to provide some reassurance, Y/N turned her head backward to take in Viserys’ expression, startled when she realised both the King and the Hand were missing. Cursing herself for her lack of awareness, she quickly moved to get up, but Alicent pulled her down to her seat. “Y/N, you must not leave now!” Alicent insisted, “Prince Daemon is about to tilt against Ser Criston!”

I tried to shake off Alicent’s hand, but her grip was surprisingly strong. “I couldn’t give two damns about Daemon, the Queen needs me-” “It would be rude to leave before you’ve seen the jouster whom you’ve bestowed your favour to compete,” Rhaenyra chimed in, her purple eyes alight with excitement. “Father is there with Mother, she will be alright. They commanded you to enjoy the tourney with us, and as your princess, I order you to stay.” My face fell as I chewed my lip while glancing at the exit of the royal box. Alicent tugged on my hand, and I found myself relenting at the determined looks both of them were levelling at me. After all, there was no harm in staying for just a while. And I might even see Daemon get bested for the first time in his life.

Reluctantly, I relayed my attention back to the tourney, just as both the competitors began charging at each other. Putting a hand over my mouth, I watched as Ser Criston and Daemon both failed to knock each other off their horses in the first tilt. With my heart in my mouth, my eyes nearly boggled out of my head when I watched Daemon being knocked off his saddle and into the dirt.

Daemon had lost.

Mouth agape, I stayed rooted in my seat, even as the crowd all stood to rain thunderous applause and cheers on Ser Criston. I felt a smug smile slowly spreading across my lips. Daemon had lost! At long last, someone had humbled that egotistical bastard, and I had been here to witness it. I sighed happily, savouring the prospect of being able to mock him for this for the rest of his life. “Prince Daemon Targaryen wishes to continue in a contest of arms!”

I raised my eyebrows as Daemon approached Ser Criston, wielding Dark Sister with a dangerous expression on his face. He is nothing better than a petulant toddler throwing a tantrum, I thought to myself, snickering. My eyebrows shot to my forehead when I noticed Ser Criston carrying a morningstar. A most unusual weapon.

The crowd followed the ensuing sparring match with enthralled eyes, myself included. Rhaenyra was nearly falling out of her seat from the way she was leaning forward, and Alicent had a hand over her mouth. When Ser Criston splintered Daemon’s shield, it was like something feral had awoken in Daemon. He began doling out more impulsive blows as anger overtook him, slashing at Ser Criston like a madman and deftly manoeuvring out of the range of his blows.

I clasped Alicent’s hand tightly in mine as Daemon kicked Ser Criston to the ground, pouncing on him with brutal force. When Daemon blocked Ser Criston’s attack by lodging Dark Sister with the morningstar’s chains, Rhaenyra reached over to take Alicent’s hand, squeezing it tightly. Finally, Daemon delivered the final blow, hurling the remains of his shield at Ser Criston, striking him squarely in the face and causing him to flounder on the ground.

I shook my head in disbelief as Daemon raised both his arms up, hollering and revelling in his triumph. But that victory was soon short lived as Daemon felt a slash on his behind, knocking him to the dirt, face first. I felt Alicent reel back in surprise next to me. Daemon tried to lurch for his sword, but was forced to submission by a few well aimed kicks from Ser Criston, breathing heavily as he dangled the morningstar threateningly in Daemon’s face.

“Yield.” Daemon could scarce believe what was happening right now. He had lost. To some unknown commonborn knight. Him, the Rogue Prince. The finest fighter in the Seven Kingdoms. Tasting bile in his mouth, he gritted his teeth. “Yield.” Ser Criston’s voice made it clear that he would not ask again. Daemon chuckled humorlessly, refusing to say a word, but begrudgingly surrendered. He knocked away the arm that the knight offered, rising to his feet before stalking off. While leaving the jousting field, he took note of Y/N running off from the royal box. His ire now increased by tenfold, he swiftly made his way to the exit of the royal box, where he spotted his lady emerging from the shadows. Snarling, he grabbed her wrist, spinning her around to face him. “Daemon, let me go right now. I do not have time for your tantrums-”

“It was you,” he hissed, twisting her arm, causing her to grimace. His rage was blinding him, the heavy pounding of his heart in his ears making his blood boil. “Your favour cursed me. If it hadn’t been for you, I would have won. And instead, I was humiliated-” Y/N scoffed, trying to break away, but Daemon only tightened her grip. “You lost because you were a cocky, arrogant bastard. Do not attempt to blame your failings on me. Now let go!”

Daemon’s vision was nearly red by now, and he pulled her closer to him as he spat out, “You’re not going anywhere, byka zaldrizes.” “Let. Go.” her voice was laced with contempt. “I will not ask a second time. Go reflect and accept your loss, maybe this will teach you some humility.”

Daemon opened his mouth to reply, but they were interrupted by the arrival of that cunt, Otto Hightower. He wanted to spit at him to fuck right off, but the look on his face made him think twice. Y/N’s hand went slack, causing Daemon to release her, worried that he had hurt her. He looked between the both of them, confused, but quickly caught on when he saw the Hand bow his head grimly.

Daemon had experienced a lot of things he would never forget that day, but nothing could compare to the pure look of devastation on Y/N’s face at that moment. The Hand inclined his head, lips pressed together, before he moved past them to the entrance to the royal box, no doubt to inform the other lords.

His anger dissipating, an unsure look appeared on his face as he scrutinised Y/N’s face. She nearly stumbled over, eyes mad with grief, and Daemon unconsciously caught her arm with his left hand, steadying her. She didn’t seem to register his touch however, mumbling in a daze, “Aemma…I need to find Viserys. Viserys…” Daemon followed her movements with his eyes silently, as she mounted a horse reserved for the nobility nearby, spurring it towards the Red Keep. He watched her disappear into the distance, mouth pressed into a thin line, and his purple eyes swimming with a dozen complicated emotions. He needed to get out of his armour, it suddenly felt all too stifling to be in it.

Y/N raced into the Red Keep, taking the steps two at a time as she rushed past startled servants. Barging into Aemma’s apartments, she stopped short when she reached Aemma’s bedchambers, her hand going to her mouth when she took in the gruesome sight before her, praying fervently that it was just some sick nightmare.

Queen Aemma, no, her friend, her dearly beloved friend, Aemma, was sprawled out on the bed, the coppery stench of blood permeating through the room. Trickles of blood still oozed out of the incisions the maesters had made around her abdomen, and Y/N felt bile creeping up her throat as she realised what had been done.

No.

Y/N bypassed Viserys - still hunched over in grief, staring at Baelon’s small, wiggling frame with a broken expression - and went straight to Aemma. Her footsteps felt leaden and unsteady, as she crouched down to hold Aemma’s lifeless hand. She squeezed it desperately, willing her to wake up, to be alive. But it was in vain.

Y/N went still, before she gently reached over and slid Aemma’s wide blue eyes shut. Trembling as tears began to cloud her vision, Y/N noticed the sun’s rays glinting off a small object tucked between Aemma’s sweat covered neck. It was Rhaenyra’s present to Aemma, that necklace with the ruby falcon pendant, its red shining brilliantly in the sun as Y/N and Viserys mourned for their good Aemma.

rip aemma :( and also f*ck viserys, he deserves to be burnt alive, roasted and fed to balerion.

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